Til All Are One: In A Rising Darkness
by Komanah24
Summary: Vorns have gone since the fall of Sentinel Prime. The violence is only increasing and the whole planet is paying the price of war. Evil is on the rise; Megatron will stop at nothing to defeat the Autobots and reign supreme, thus instilling his corrupted rule over Cybertron. The Autobots are waging a losing war. Little do they know, darkness takes form as one of their own. Rated T.
1. Prologue

**_Disclaimer__: I do not own Transformers. This is the only time I shall be stating this obvious fact for this story. Enjoy._**

_Hello again everyone! I realize that this is a very late update and I am sorry for that. :( Silly me, those two weeks of not updating threw off my groove. *turns to past two weeks* "You threw off my groove!" (lol)_

_Anyway, this is the beginning of book number two. :)_

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**Prologue**

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Firefly bits back a giggle as she cuddles her young son. He is so beautiful and perfect. She smiles down at the squirming sparkling in her arms. Prowl had been so sure she was going to have a femmeling, he will be surprised, but still ecstatic when he hears the news. She can't wait to take the long awaited trip to the Iacon base where her beloved sparkmate is stationed as active Head Tactician to Optimus Prime. She is proud of her bond-mate and his accomplishments, his willingness to sacrifice everything to ensure the freedom of Cybertron.

"I can't give you a designation without Prowl here to help me," she whispers to the new-spark. He stares up at her with large round optics, gurgling happily and smiling at her brightly.

Firefly sighs in contentment as she slowly climbs the large metal stairs to her one tiny room apartment. Though she may be just getting by, she definitely is not poor. No, she has seen the poor of Praxus in the slums of the city, and she considers herself very well off in comparison.

"Do you want to go visit your daddy, Prowl?" Firefly asks the little yellow sparkling as she reaches her door. The mechling laughs out loud and reaches for his Carrier's faceplates as she punches in the code to unlock the apartment.

As she enters into her living quarters she instantly feels something isn't right. Something is wrong. Her optics narrow at the darkness of the room and she scans every corner with suspicion. She sees no one, but as a precaution she extends her energy readers. A small flare of a signature brushes her own and her spark jumps. Someone is here!

Firefly clutches her son protectively to her chassis hiding him from the room and its perpetrator. She will protect him with her spark. Venting deeply to gain courage she commands the lights to activate and at the same instant she initiates her small, lone subspace cannon. Prowl had made her get it installed when his duties to the Prime had grown, thus keeping him in Iacon for orns _(1 orn= approx. 1 week)_ at a time. She is now thankful that she had given in to his constant worrying, she scans the room once more and sees no one or nothing out of place. Had she just imagined it? She lowers her arm but her cannon remains powered as she steps further into her apartment. Apparently her paranoia of being jumped in dark places got the best of her again.

"Firefly," an amused voice says directly behind her.

The small doorwinged femme yelps and leaps over the love seat sitting in the middle of the room, at the same time she spins, aiming her cannon at whoever is behind her.

"Wait, no! Easy," the mech urges with his legs braced apart, both servos held up in a sign of nonviolence in an attempt to calm her down, "femme, easy."

"Barricade?" Firefly asks in recognition.

"Well, I'm glad you haven't forgotten me," the Decepticon says with a smile sounding truly relieved.

The femme doesn't return it; instead she stares hard at the mech in disbelief. The last time she had seen him he had told her that he loved her and wanted her to be his sparkmate, but she had declined gently. Barricade had instantly guessed that the reason for her answer was because of his older brother and had left in a rage. It was true, she had loved Prowl for quite some time at that point, but was far too scared to tell the emotionless mech her feelings. Barricade left and joined the Decepticons, the opposite side that his brother was thinking of joining, out of spite and deliberately broke their sibling bond nearly offlining Prowl. She would never, ever forgive him for that.

Barricade's distractingly red optics flit down toward the bundle in her arms, just noticing the sparkling. His small smile fades slowly and his gaze narrows, morphing into a scowl. Firefly tightens her grip possessively around her sparkling and sends the mech a threatening glare as the Con's faceplates twist with malice.

Firefly finds herself suddenly wondering how Barricade and Prowl, such different mechs, could be sparked from the same creators. How could she have thought for one nano-klik_(1 earth second)_ that she had feelings for this awful mech in front of her? Her thoughts are cut short by the dark colored mech's words.

"Is he…?" the Barricade's irritated question trails off as he glares down at the sparkling in her arms as if the young mechlet were an abomination. Her creation stares back with wide, innocent optics.

The black and scarlet femme loses patience for the mech, "What do you want Barricade?" she snaps with her blue optics narrowing, ignoring his question. Yes, she knows what he's asking. He is trying to inquire if the sparkling is Prowl's. Such a simple question! She's sparkbonded to the mech, for Primus' sake! Of course he is Prowl's!

"The Decepticons are mobilizing."

Firefly's gaze sharpens, "So?"

"They're coming here." All the air leaves her chassis and Barricade's words barely register as she stares uncomprehendingly at him. "The orders are no survivors, when they're done razing this place there's going to be nothing left." Barricade's red optics shine with worry for her as he tries to feign indifference as a Decepticon should. No doubt his worry is only for her, Firefly thinks as she tightens her grip on her son once more.

A rising panic begins to grip the femme's spark. The Decepticons are going to attack Prauxs? Why? There are Autobot troops stationed here who will fight them off! There is no way that Megatron would risk loosing so many of his mechs in an attack against such a well fortified city!

Big doe tears form in her sparkling's optics as he senses his Carrier's fear through their new carrier-creation bond. He clings to her chest armor, his little frame quivering with fright.

"No, Firefly, I know what you're thinking, Megatron and Galvatron have combined their forces. No one is getting out of here online," Barricade says harshly with his vocals raising in pitch as he sees that he isn't getting through to her. Firefly shakes her helm forcefully even as his optics turn desperate, "Please leave!" Barricade practically begs her with his vocals grating in annoyance for her difficulty and his own growing fear for her safty. "Don't you want your son to live?" How unfair of him to bring her sparkling into this! "To meet his father?" Of course she did! Firefly doesn't realize that she has voiced her last thought until Barricade growls forcefuly in a commanding tone as he shoves her toward the door, "Then take him and leave now!"

"But what about all the other bots," Firefly asks desperately, gesturing wildly with her free servo to indicate the whole city, "What about them?!" He doesn't answer and continues to propel her toward the apartment door. "I have warn them! Barricade!" she yells his designation angrily, jerking herself out of his hard grip, "did you not come to warn them too?" Barricade's ruby optics steel as he looks at her and Firefly lowers her gaze sadly in realization. He didn't care about anyone else but her. "I always thought there was a good mech hiding somewhere in your spark," the femme whispers with her chin plating quivering with unspoken emotion, "and that deep down you regret what you did. But now I see I was wrong. Looks like you chose the right faction, Barricade." His designation feels bitter on her glossa and she whirls to exit the apartment. She must warn the Autobot troops stationed here.

"Firefly," the sound of the Con calling her stops her movements. Her back struts stiffen and she waits for what he has to say, his next words tearing at her spark, "when I return…I'll have my orders."

The femme quickly leaves her living quarters and closed the door solidly. The bang makes her sparkling jump and a small cry leaves his vocals. She gently holds her son against her spark to calm the him down as she formulates her course of action. She must act quickly to warn the troops of the impending danger. Firefly gently places the little yellow mechling in her carrying chamber within her chest plating, he will be safe here. The plating on femmes' chests is always stronger than any other part of their frame for the sole purpose of protecting sparklings in their carrying chamber. Also being next to the Carrier's spark always helps little ones to remain calm in a crisis.

The red and black femme vents deeply, forcing composure through her systems so she doesn't upset her creation snuggling against her spark. She jogs easily down the stairs toward the street and meets her neighbor, Buck Shot, at the bottom of the stairs. She personally knows the young mech's family unit. Her spark hurts as his mouthplates open happily to greet her, but she doesn't give him the opportunity.

"Buck Shot," Firefly says urgently, "take your family to the base immediately, the Decepticons are coming to the city! Please warn everyone you can along the way! I must go warn the troops!" She sprints away from the frightened mech leaving him there in his stupor and hopes that he will do as she told him to. As she races through the streets toward the military base of Praxus she yells a warning to everyone she passes. Praxus will not fall today! Not if she has anything to say about it!

Her sprint leaves her gasping for air as she nears the base. Relief floods her as she makes a beeline for the entrance.

"Femme, halt!" someone calls out just as she reaches the base's large east doors, she turns her petite helm to see five guards, and one has his rifle trained on her. "What is your business here?" the guard asks suspiciously as he and the other four approach the winded fembot.

"Please I must speak with the Prime," Firefly begs, "the Decepticons are coming!"

"That is incorrect, my dear," a gravelly voice sounds from the dark shadows of the base and Megatron emerges from them with an evil leer on his serrated mouth plating, "the Decepticons are here."

The guard's optics enlarge and he begins yelling orders to his comrades, "Subspace weapons!" the sound of the Autobots' sub-spacing weapons fills Firefly's audios, "partners!" the five guards split off into three teams with the leader being alone. "Femme, with me!" he yells to Firefly, she quickly joins him as they circle Megatron like cyber-wolves. The Decepticon leader smirks as he stands tall and unafraid in the middle of his enemies. Uneasiness pricks at Firefly as she stares at the Con's huge bulk. Why is he alone?

"Sigil," one of the younger guards calls to their leader, "why is the alarm not sounding?" The older 'bot looks curiously up toward the mounted security cameras on the base's walls.

"Soundwave took care of the cameras on this side of the base and don't bother with the comm. link," Megatron answers the guard casually with a smirk marking his pleasure, "we will be in and out of your base before anyone sounds the alarm and then the city you safeguard will be eradicated with no mercy." He chuckles with an insane tint to his vocals as he clenches his large, clawed servos and glares at the guards to await their next move.

Their weapons hold stead on the warlord, but a look of a trapped prey is entering their optics. They glance sparingly at Sigil, knowing that there will be no silent commands from their experienced leader's comm links. They are on their own, only able to try and stall the large Con until someone else spots them notices that something is amiss. Two of the guards exchange glances.

"Button, Crash, no!" Sigil yells to his comrades just before both of the younger Autobots lunge at the warlord. Megatron shoots both bots with his mounted cannon, felling them instantly with large gaping holes in their frames. Roars of outrage fly from the two's brothers-in-arms and a cry of shock escapes Firefly as squeezes her optics shut against the sight of the two youngsters sprawled on the ground with energon flowing freely from their wounds, the pair's optics dim slowly.

Firefly feels her sparkling shaking in her carrying chamber. She longs to get him out, to reassure him everything will be fine, and to cuddle him lovingly. She can't close her optics! She will get herself offlined like that! Her optics snap open as she hears the screams of the other guards. Her vision clears just in time to see an offlined Sigil sliding off of the warlord's huge sword with his gaze wide and expressionless. The deafening sound of metal sliding on metal sends a shudder through the femme's mainframe. The Decepticon's optics turn toward her and grin splits his features.

What can she do? Firefly's spark thwacks her chassis madly and her vents are ragged with fear. She is not a warrior! She cannot fight Megatron! Then it dawns on her, Megatron had said Soundwave took care of the cameras on this side of the base, that means the others are still functional!

"What are you going to do, femme?" Megatron asks gleefully, clearly thrilled with the situation he has currently found himself in. Firefly spins quickly on her heel struts and sprints away as fast as she can with her spark pounding in her audios. She hears Megatron cackle something about 'sporting femme'. She feels her son shudder with fear. The poor sparkling, just born two cycles ago and he has already known evil. The fembot rounds the base's south east corner at a mad dash with the war monger close behind.

Megatron temporarily forgets himself in his need to catch the femme. No one bests him! He too, rounds the corner and the base's alarm blares through the city almost instantaneously. The warlord's optics widen and he skids to a stop with a curse spewing from his vocalizer! She tricked him! He clenches his large servos and bellows his indignation to Cybertron's sister moons! His vocal processor emits a vicious growl as he glares at the femme. This one he will offline slowly!

He steps toward her menacingly but is stopped by a horde of shots hitting his chest armor. Ducking around the corner he sees a squad of Praxus' guard charging at him! Slag that femme!

As Firefly offers the large mech a victorious smile before she sprints away, Megatron angrily snarls into his comm lines, "Seekers and all aerial mechs mobilize... No one gets out."

Firefly runs back towards the city streets. She did it, she warned Praxus! Now she has to get out of the city herself! She must get her son to safety! The sound of seeker engines makes her throat pipes choke with dread. The deafening rumble rips through the sky and the seekers unleash pit on Praxus. Firefly runs blindly through the bombarded city, ducking stray missiles and flying debris. Her spark hammers in her chassis as she disappears down another alley, the accumulating wounds on her frame beginning to slow her.

She gasps as a Decepticon appears at the end of the long alley with a feral snarl on his lip plates and lunges at her. His servos grab at her waist and his evil leer brands permanently into her processor as she jerks free and tries to run. He reaches for her chest plates... her carrying chamber... her baby. Instinctively the femme raises her small plasma cannon and blasts the mech's helm off his shoulders at point blank range. Firefly feels indescribable astonishment and shame at her actions and she tries her best not to look at the deactivated frame of the con as she sprints past him.

Now is not the time for sentiments, she must do these awful things to keep her son safe.

A purple and black femme sprints up the street toward her. The red in her optics and the hellish purple insignia on the black highlights on her shoulder tells Firefly that she is a Decepticon. The Con femme looks from the deactivated mech to Firefly then back again. A look of slight disbelief registers before the Con shakes it off and swings a battle ax at her with deactivation in her glittering optics. Firefly dodges easily to both femmes' surprise and shoots her opponent three times, aiming for the sensitive axels in the taller femme's legs and arms. One blast hits its intended target on the Con's leg and the purple and black femme crumples to the ground with a grunt of pain.

Firefly takes the small window of escape and sprints away from the Decepticon utterly amazed that she was actually such an accurate shot to hit a leg piston. Now all she has to do is stay hidden and slip out of the city.

"No!" a familiar cry comes from down the street, "Leave me alone!"

Firefly freezes in fear. Twinkle... the small fembot that befriended her so long ago. No, not Twinkle! Without hesitation, the Firefly doubles back and heads for the sound of her friend's vocals, searching frantically for her pink and purple companion. She comes upon a large black mech that has Twinkle trapped between his large servo and a partially destroyed wall. The black and red, doorwinged femme leaps onto the offending mech with a savage snarl and with all the strength in her arms she rips at the unprotected wires on the back of his neck, tearing them out with her long, slender digits. The mech falls to the ground severely wounded, but not offlined. Firefly isn't sure if the pressure in her chassis is guilt or relief at this fact, for he is clearly suffering! No time for this now! The femme turns to her shaken friend and helps her to her pedes.

"Twinkle," she gasps seizing the dazed femme by her shoulders, "get up and run!" she has to yell into Twinkle's faceplates to be heard over the explosions rocking her home. Twinkle stumbles a few steps ahead of Firefly before stopping dead in her tracks. She stares fearfully down the street and a small croak of fear seeps from her parted mouthplates. Firefly's energon runs cold in her systems as she sees what Twinkle does, a humongous mech barreling toward them, optics full of revenge filled hate, serrated denta bared! Megatron! And his optics are settled on her! "Get out of here! Run!" Firefly screams at Twinkle!

Both femme's whirl away from the frightening sight! A large flame blossoms on Firefly's chest plates with a resonating boom sealing her fate! Sparks and energon shower around her as she falls into a heap on the ground. Everything goes mute as she crumbles. It doesn't hurt near as bad as she thought it would... getting shot... groggily she checks her sparkling and almost sobs in relief when she feels him squirm in her carrying chamber.

Twinkle turns around to see if Firefly is behind her and her spark nearly shatters when she sees the delicate fembot lying in a heap with a growing puddle of wet energon around her. The world in all its pointless chaos fades away and all the young horrified femme can hear is her own spark pulsating in her audios.

"No!" a shuddering whisper escapes her before everything comes crashing back into a harsh reality, "Firefly!" Twinkle's anguished scream pierces clearly through all the noise of the carnage.

**Don't…you dare…come back!** Firefly grunts harshly over their strong friendship bond forged over the course of many vorns_ (1 vorn = 83 earth yrs)_. **Run!**

From the corner of the mortally wounded femme's vision she sees Twinkle spin rapidly on her heel and sprint away. Firefly vents in relief but she also feels immense failure touch her as she stares upward into the sky above. She failed to keep her son safe. Tears threaten to spill out of her optics as she feels him quaking in her carrying chamber. She tries to comfort him, but she is fading quickly and has very little time with him. Defeat stabs at her as she realizes she will never see him grow up, scratch his paint, make friends, get into fights as all mechlings do, follow in his father's pede steps,…fall in love. She is robed of her motherhood and now her sparkling will have to go on without her.

Will he even make it through this senseless battle? If he does, will he ever find his Creator?

Prowl, Firefly's chassis tightens with grief. Prowl will blame himself for this, for not being here to protect her. He will put on a strong front and pretend not to be in pain but it will tear him apart slowly. She can only hope he will be able to heal in time.

Firefly's awareness sharpens as she sees the tall purple and black femme that she was fighting earlier approaching her. The Decepticon fembot's cannons are smoking, she must be the one that shot her.

Firefly struggles to intake as her pulse begins to diminish and she uses the last remaining bit of energy in her frame to cloak her son's spark signal from the world. In her last offlining vents she sees a look of pure horror cross the tall Decepticon femme's faceplates before the world fades away. Her last thoughts on Prowl.

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The sparkling sniffles. He feels his Carrier's fear. Something is wrong! He hears loud, angry yelling followed by a piercing scream! He wishes everything that is scaring his creator would just go away! He feels tired and scared. He wishes he could get out of his mother's carrying chamber, because it is kind of small, but a loud burst sounds from nearby and sends his Carrier tumbling. He whimpers. No, he will just stay in here.

His mother's venting is haggard and it is no longer comforting next to her spark. The little mechling is scared. He wants to cry but something tells him that crying will not help, so he stays silent. He hears his femme creator cry out in pain as something slams into her chest. She falls.

The sparkling whimpers wishing she would get them out of this awful place. But this time his Carrier doesn't get up. Her spark pulses brightly beside him, silently sending comfort and love to the sparkling to blot out his terror. He smiles and cuddles closer to her spark. Everything will be ok.

His mother's spark pulses one last time before its signature fades out. The sparkling suddenly feels completely alone and abandoned. What happened?! He clicks questioningly and somewhat fearfully as he searches for his Carrier's presence. She is not here! She left him! No. She loves him because she told him so. She will come back and get him, he decides. He must wait for her.

He curls up in the carrying chamber and presses his tiny servos over his audio antennas to blot out the frightening noises until his carrier returns. Screaming, yelling, booms, groans, and crying resonate around him. A sharp pain jolts his chest and he whimpers against it. His legs draw closer to his main frame, snuggly pressed against his torso, trying to get rid of the misery and fear around him. But the pain in his chest only sharpens and silent tears begin rolling down his cheeksplates.

He wishes his Carrier would hurry up and come back to get him.

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_A quick congrats to **Malware**__(guest) who figured out what sort of depressing turn this story was going to take. You have incredible (but pessimistic) foresight._

_I hope you all enjoy it... I was up until 3:00 a.m. silly me... __And if you know who Firefly and Prowl's little sparkling is... please don't kill me. :(_


	2. Chapter 1

_Hello again peoples! I don't know about everyone else but spring is right around the corner and I'm feeling it! I wish I could say that with it being spring that I could give you a happy, perky, and otherwise upbeat chapter... I am sorry, but alas I cannot. This will contain much feely stuff. Much sadness. Much angst that I do so hate to thrust upon my readers unaware, so you have been warned._

_So, onto the chapter #1 of In A Rising Darkness. And if someone new is here that feels lost, then do not fear, tis not on account of you being a nincompoop, only that there is a story before this one. Enjoy. :D_

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**Chapter One**

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Optimus Prime trudges through the ravaged city with a heavy spark. Why would Megatron do this? It made no sense to him. These mere piles of ruble at the red and blue mech's pedes were once the homes of families, the 'bots that didn't want anything to do with the war, and it had been a total massacre. All that is here is bodies of mechs, femmes, and young sparklings alike, all slain in some mindless madness. Megatron crushed them and the Praxian Army.

An anger rises in Optimus' core at his eldest sibling. Megatron acted like he was spawned in the pit by Unicron himself, as if he had never been taught the right from the wrong and the good from the evil. Or maybe he did... he just didn't care anymore.

Optimus' denta clench painfully with concealed anger as he stops by the frame of a small but beautiful red and black femme. The hole in her spark glares at him accusingly as the energon, still glowing and wet, flows out. Her small, used plasma canon, along with the few littered frames of offlined Decepticons, signified the young fembot didn't go down without a fight.

Prime can hear his team utter their disbelief at the sight of the huge amount of wreckage and the smoking debris that once was a proud city. They had come here answering the Praxian Army's call for help but they are far too late.

The call had been calm and collected as any soldier would have to be in such a situation. Optimus had assembled two battleships immediately and the warriors are now standing in what is left, horrified.

Seven mechs stand near him, Ironhide, his weapon specialist, Ratchet, his Chief Medical Officer, Hound, the best tracker he has ever seen, his brother, Ultra Magnus, his T.I.C. Jazz, Head Tactician Prowl, and, Primus forbid, Prime in training, Hot Rod. Optimus avoids looking at his brothers as a feeling of shame creeps into his spark, as a Prime it was his duty to protect, and he is failing miserably.

"Search for any survivors!" he orders quickly to the battalions, hastily harnessing his anger into a search and rescue, "Hot Rod take two teams and guard the ships. Keep a sharp optic for any stray Cons that might've lagged." His younger brother nods before sprinting back to the battleships, the Hulk and the Vengeance. Everyone is already too absorbed in searching for survivors that they didn't even notice the young mech had listened immediately.

The sound of unsteady pede falls catches Optimus' audios and glances at his H.T., Prowl, who's optics scan vigorously over the carnage in an almost frantic way. The signs of shock and severed bonds were evident on the young doorwinger's faceplates the instant that they had left Iacon, Ratchet almost forbad the Praxian to come when he'd nearly collapsed from pain. Prowl had then put on his mask. The Prowl mask that he never let anyone get behind once in place. He demanded that Ratchet allow him to come because he was needed as the Head Tactician. Ratchet agreed, abet very reluctantly and had hovered in the background in case the black and white mech suddenly keeled over.

Prowl had been right, and as much as Optimus wishes that he would have stayed behind in Iacon, if only to spare him the agony of finding whomever he'd lost in the masses of offlined frames, he is glad that the Praxian insisted on coming. The Prime had just appointed Prowl his Head Tactician, a very smart move on his part, for Prime had never seen anyone analyze as quickly, skillfully, and accurately as Prowl did. Even so it is hard to miss that this cycle is going to tear the doorwinger to pieces.

"I am sorry Prowl," Optimus says quietly as the younger mech blinks at the ruins of his home city.

Prowl doesn't answer and instead fixates his gaze on the deactivated femme Optimus had been silently mourning over. His optic ridge furrows almost uncomprehendingly and a jagged vent is pulled into his systems. He kneels cautiously beside her reaches for her small servo that is strewn away from her frame as if in her last moments she was trying to crawl to safety. Lifting it gently as if her greying servo might break if he mishandled it, he jerkily moves her closer, his vents become short and haggard. Even with his faceplates unmoving, even with his mouthplates not twitching once to betray his emotions it is easy to see the sorrow clouding his electric blue optics causing them to dim. Slowly the Praxian wraps his arms around the femme and pulls the her to his chest, burying his helm into her neckcables. The only sign of his private mourning is his hanging door wings.

Optimus watches in utter shock as his usually emotionless tactician begins to tremble, evidence of a near break down. "Prowl," Optimus despises how unsure he sounds in his own audios, "do you require Ratchet?" The white helm shakes without thought and the Autobot leader motions for the other mechs to follow him elsewhere to leave Prowl alone for a moment.

Prowl manages to hold back his threatening tears by frowning deeply. He knew he would find her here among the offlined... gone... lifeless. He had felt their bond fade into nothing and had known instantly, seeing only made it a reality. One he could not escape, and that felt like his spark was being crushed from the inside out. He hasn't felt that much agony since his brother tried to extinguish his spark by deliberately breaking their sibling bond. With his frown tightening he presses his forehelm onto the cold faceplates of the femme's and squeezes his optics shut against the ache.

She is gone. No amount of mourning will bring her back. There are other to attend to, possible survivors to be rescued... but not her... not Firefly. Prowl slowly lays her back to the ground with his vents caught in his systems. He falls numbly back onto his skidplates, his wide, unblinking gaze never wavering from the greying femme. She no doubt took their unborn sparkling with her. His family…gone. Just like they never existed. But they did exist, he feels it with every pound of his tortured spark. His shoulders shake as they fall into a defeated and sorrowful slump, his optics dim and unmoving.

Optimus exchanges a worried glance with Ultra Magnus and Ratchet as they watch Prowl from a distance as they direct the search for survivors. Ratchet growls under his breath and runs a small scan over the tactician from a distance. The doorwinger doesn't indicate in the slightest if he felt the scan run up and down his seated frame. Optimus hears the medic muttering something about 'dumb aft', 'shove my wrench so far up his tailpipe' and 'sorry son of a glitch with no processor'. The black and white doorwinger is clearly suffering from a broken bond, one that could offline him if not put on a spark stabilizer and properly monitored, and it is driving the C.M.O. nearly insane with worry as he watches from a distance. That stubborn mech had practically yelled at the Ratchet, telling him he was going with the ships whether Ratchet approved or not, and had firmly planted himself in the Vengeance with his doorwings splayed tensely outward with hostility. The only reason the medic gave in was because he had never seen Prowl that way before.

"Ratchet," Flatline, one of the medic twins, yells loudly to gain the C.M.O.'s attention, "we found one online, but we can't get him stablized!"

Ratchet glances back towards Prowl then to Optimus with his mouthplates opening but before he can say anything the Prime speaks, "We will keep an optic on Prowl, do not worry."

The C.M.O. nods at the Prime with his expression grateful and sprints after his apprentice. Ultra Magnus turns immediately back to his searching but Optimus sends a worried glance in Prowl's direction. He has been sitting in the same place for almost a _breem (8.3 earth min.)_ now. Optimus begins to help Ultra Magnus while inconspicuously keeping his blue optics trained on the tactician.

Prowl slowly pushes to his pedes and almost staggers back to the ground, his gaze never leaving the offlined femme. Optimus almost comms Ratchet but refrains when Prowl steadily turns and begins searching the wreckage with the others with a permanent grimace etched on his faceplates. Optimus wonders briefly if it would be better to command his friend to go back to base but immediately banishes the thought. It would be wasted words. Prowl would listen because it was a command, but would probably resent Optimus for pulling rank at a time like this. Instead he opts for keeping a watchful optic on the mech that barely strayed for less than a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_.

Joors_ (1 joor= 6.5 earth hrs.)_ pass slowly as the Autobots continue to search, seemingly in vain.

Ultra Magnus' frustration shows as he heaves a piece of metal to the side with a hiss to Optimus "Who could have survived this?"

_Only one so far, _Optimus refrains from voicing the pessimistic words to his already irate brother and only nods his cranial unit in agreement and regret. Regret of not being here in time to ensure the safety of the now offlined Praxians, of not being able to confirm the survival of the doorwing race. As far as they know there is only a handful of doorwingers online.

"Optimus, you know we came as soon as we could. There is nothing else that you could have done." Ultra Magnus says with his vocals softer, trying to ease the guilt he spots in his younger brother's optics. When Optimus doesn't answer the older brother continues, "I know how you feel, pit, we all do. But you have got to realize that..." his voice stops softly and Optimus looks at him curiously. His brother's gaze is penetrating beyond his shoulder strut and Ultra Magnus says roughly and aloud into the comm lines, : We found another one. :

Optimus whirls and spots what Ultra Magnus did. A femme walking slowly through the ravaged crystal gardens, stumbling slightly as she stares about her in horrified awe. She holds her left arm strut tightly from a small leaking wound as tear fall freely from her optics. The trainee medics, Jolt and First Aid, who were the closest medics on scene, approach her cautiously to assure the slightly baffled fembot that they were no threat before they quickly run field scans of her mainframe to ensure she has no spark threatening injuries. The femme sits quietly for the young medics with her huge, sorrowful optics looking over what was left of Praxus. Optimus can tell the femme is a noble by her flamboyant color scheme of pink and purple, her armor is flashy and well cared for, just covered with dust and a few scratches.

Suddenly the femme's optics widen, the panic causes her neutral yellow optics to blaze white and she leaps off her seat shouting, "Firefly! Is she alright?! Where is she?! Please, p-please, tell me you found her!" she begs gripping onto First Aid's forearm with her expression wild.

The medic shakes his helm and tries to calm her, "I'm sorry, but you are the first fembot we found online."

The femme's frame sags and tears begin streaming down her faceplates angrily. Her optics search the piles and piles of frames around her scanning frantically for the femme, willing with all of her spark that her friend is still online. Her frame begins to shake uncontrollably as she tries to pull her arm from First Aid's grasp. "Let me go!" the femme suddenly screams at the young mech shoving against his chest with all her might. The medic stumbles back slightly but his heel strut hooks onto a pile of debris landing him promptly onto his skidplating. Jolt quickly pulls a sedative from his sub-space and moves toward her. She spots it immediately. "Don't touch me! Get away! Just go away!" her terrified, shrill screeches echo eerily over the ravaged city.

Ultra Magnus quickly makes his way over to the scene as the femme lashes out at Jolt and manages to slap him fiercely enough to dent the young medic's faceplates. The large mech draws near enough to catch the panicked fembot and grasps her against his mainframe firmly. She wiggles frantically, desperate to be free from her captor, but the Ultra Magnus' steel grip does not loosen. Her struggling finally quells and she sags against Ultra Magnus' chest, her body wracking with silent sobs. She remains in the mech's embrace for nearly a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_ when her frame stiffens and she pulls away from him her optics trained on something or someone not far away.

"Please let me go," she begs to the large bot who instantly complies to her calmer request. The fembot scrambles away from him, over the debris piles and stops beside the same femme who had caused Prowl's emotional breakdown. "Firefly, no," her vocal processor can only emit a broken whisper. She curls up next to the deactivated fembot and lays her helm on the now grey shoulder. The pink and purple bot gently strokes the offlined femme's light armor down the length of her limp appendage, silent tears still streaming down her faceplates.

The crunch of pedes on metal causes her to whirl with tear streaking her faceplate. Prowl has stationed himself several yards away looking impassively at the scene before him, taking note how distraught the young femme is at the offlining of Firefly.

"What is your designation?" Prowl asks his vocal processor as void of emotions as his face.

The femme sniffs slightly before answering, "Twinkle."

"How did you know her?"

The mech's vocals break slightly on the word 'her', but the femme doesn't notice it in her misery and answers his question, "She worked at a bakery near my parental units for a long while. I go there... I went there all the time. She befriended me when she noticed all the other femmes were being mean to me. She was my friend when everyone else despised me for my high status." The young fembot blinks rapidly as more tears begin to for in her watery optics, "We went for long walks in the gardens and she would tell me all about her life before she came here, how she used to reside in Iacon, about her sparkmate and how the next time he came she would introduce me to him..." her sentence trails off in a strangled keen and her vents hitch harshly as she fights for control. "She was waiting on him to name the-" Twinkle's vents clog in her throatpipes and she gasps in horror, "The sparkling! Oh, Primus, please no! NO!"

The femme falls back into hysterics as she grasps desperately to her friend. Prowl fights to keep the pain from shining in his optics as tears threaten once more, it is illogical to cry now. Crying will solve nothing. He pushes away his emotions and approaches the wailing femme carefully. "Femme," Prowl starts.

"Shhh!" she hisses suddenly holding up a small, slender servo in his faceplates. Prowl begins to comm Ratchet to come for the femme as Twinkle wildly looks over Firefly's cold husk with crazed fervor. Ratchet will be able to do something with her perhaps, after all, Ratchet was C.M.O. for a reason. But something stops him. Something stop him dead in his tracks and makes his spark still into slow pounding beat. It fills his audios, but he refuses to believe it.

-Click-... -Beep, beep-

Both bots stare the deactivated femme's frame as they realize the sounds are coming from inside of her.

"The sparkling!" Twinkle breathes. Without hesitation, Twinkle quickly rips open Firefly's carrying chamber and stares down at the tiny yellow passenger. A small, sad laugh breaks through the pink and purple fembot's vocalizer followed by static as she takes a shuddering vent and begins sobbing. She reaches down and pulls the terrified mechling from his safe nest, taking care to hide his view of his offlined femme creator.

Prowl stares at the little mechling in disbelief with his intakes shallow. This is Firefly's son. He takes a step back in a vain attempt to escape the emotions the sparkling sends crashing into his spark. He needs to be removed. He needs to be away, far away. He turns away from the femme and sparkling only to be stopped by a small whimper. His spark nearly stops and he risks a glance over his shoulder armor.

The huge, innocent optics are trained on _him_. The sparkling stretches his short arms toward Prowl, indicating he wants the tactician to hold him. Prowl freezes, his pistons suddenly unmoving in light of this development and draws back slightly as Twinkle approaches him. A panic grips his spark the closer the femme came. His emotions are very illogical; the sparkling needs comfort. Firefly's son needs him. Reining his emotional core back into submission Prowl takes the young one from the noble fembot and holds him close to his chassis.

The mechling curls up beside Prowl's spark just as his young systems crash from the physical and emotional trauma he has received this cycle_ (day)_ forcing him into emergency recharge.

Nothing in Prowl's many vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ has prepared him for this; holding Firefly's sparkling while standing next to his own mate's offlined frame. The tactician's arms barely hold the tiny yellow mechling as he turns and heads away from Firefly. The sparkling needs medical attention. The sparkling needs Ratchet.

Twinkle follows close behind as Prowl searches the field for the C.M.O. No need, Ratchet finds them.

"Prowl, you really need to go back to—" the C.M.O.'s optics catch sight of yellow plating and his vents catch, "Primus…" Ratchet nears and stares hard at the yellow thing. It couldn't be. "A sparkling?"

The Head Tactician pulls the recharging mechling away from his chest armor and hands him to Ratchet without a word. Hurriedly the medic bot scans the sparkling.

"Is he wounded?" Prowl asks the medic, his optics not straying from the yellow mechling once.

Ratchet huffs, "He is suffering from a broken creator bond… I take it that the sparkling's only creator has been offlined?"

Prowl frowns deeply, "A femme." Silence fills the space after the few words and the H.T. watches every small twitch the tiny yellow bundle makes before speaking again, "His only creator?"

"Yes," Ratchet mutters as he scans deeper for internal injuries, "There is only one creator bond that was established thus far and only one broken. To the sparkling he only has one creator. Since the mech creator bond hasn't been founded my guess is that he's either offlined already or perhaps abandoned the femme."

Twinkle comes closer, "So he's going to be alright?"

"I believe so," Ratchet says as he examines the recharging sparkling's exterior plating and scanning across the mechlet again.

"He could be enlisted," Prowl states matter-of-factly.

The medbot furrows his optic ridge, "Who?"

"The mech creator."

"True," the medic nods and needlessly scans the mechling again, relief fills the C.M.O.'s faceplates when nothing shows up. Ratchet glances at Prowl, "But why would a mech creator wait so long to form a creator bond with his sparkling? He is almost already three cycles_ (days)_ old… normally creator bonds are established within one cycle_ (day)_." Ratchet shakes his helm and scans the mechling once more to be sure the little bot is fine.

"He might have not known he was born," Prowl replies logically. Ratchet stops scanning to look at the tactical bot strangely. Prowl's frown automatically eases and his look of impassiveness overtakes his faceplates. The doorwinger turns and glances over the carnage of the slaughtered, his optics searching. His vocals are rough when he speaks again, 'There could be more survivors out there. Twinkle, you remain with one of the medics until you've been cleared."

Quietly he starts away from the C.M.O. A shuffling of armor makes him glance back briefly. The sparkling's optics online and he stares up into Ratchet's hardened faceplates. A whimper escapes from the mechling's new vocalizer and he whips his tiny helm about searching for something, his huge optics land on Prowl.

No… Prowl turns and begins walking only to be stopped by a tiny squeak that slightly resembles a cry. The tactician looks back and sees Ratchet gazing at him expectantly. Little servos strain out toward him once more and panic is etched on the sparkling's fine-featured faceplates. The frown returns to the H.T.'s lip plates and he is still for a moment.

"Just take him for now, Prowl. He obviously feels safest with you," Ratchet grumbles and holds the yellow runt toward him. This is probably the only way to get the stubborn Enforcer to hold still for a while, and Ratchet will make the most of it.

Hesitance flashes across Prowl's processor. Cautiously he takes the mechling once more and limply holds him.

"No, no, no, no," Ratchet growls, "Hold him tighter to your chassis, his plating is going to get rattled to the pit!" The medic grabs Prowl's arms and places them around the sparkling in a more secure manner. "There, hang onto him for now. At least until we can figure out what to do with him."

Prowl shifts uncomfortably as the sparkling whirs and clicks as he cuddles to the tactician's chest. The mechling lays his helm against Prowl's spark and vents deeply as he listens to the deep, steady thrum of life. Sniffing quiely the mechlet and pats the large black and white mech's chest armor that he is laying against.

He is afraid. His mother hasn't returned yet. Why didn't she come? The mech's arms tighten slightly around the sparkling's frame and a wave of calm washes across the younger of the pair. This mech has doorwings like his carrier, so he must be nice too. This mech is strong and will keep him safe until his carrier comes for him. She will come… This mech will keep him safe…

The optics fade and shutter as the sparkling falls back into recharge and Prowl quickly looks for Ratchet as the mechling's helm sags against him once more. To the tactical bot's irritation the C.M.O. is already halfway across the former battlefield with Twinkle. He probably is taking her back to where they have the other injured mech. Carefully Prowl peeks down at the young bot in his arms, the sparkling's mouthplates hang open as he recharges and he subconsciously continues to pat the H.T.'s chest armor.

Those faceplates. Prowl's spark twist painfully as he stares.

He can see Firefly's inquisitiveness and brightness in the sparkling's features. This is Firefly's sparkling; this is the only part of her he has left. Prowl intakes painfully as his spark's aching flares up once more, a rare wince touches his lips. He failed his sparkmate. He should have been here to protect her and keep her from harm, but he wasn't.

Prowl finds himself wishing for a nano-klik_ (second)_ that he would have left with her that time so long ago when she asked him to abandon the Autobots, maybe then this wouldn't have happened. Quickly that thought is slaughtered in his processor and he pulls his blue optics from the mechling. This sparkling needs more emotional stability than Prowl can give him. The tactician shivers involuntarily and glances about himself for an escape from his predicament.

Relief fills him when he spots Ironhide and Jazz. Hastily he makes his way through the wreckage and debris. The sparkling whirs and snuggles closer to the H.T.'s spark making the tactician panic slightly. Get him away! The panic builds into outright terror as he paces rapidly toward the two mechs. If he keeps the mechling he will fail him like he did Firefly. That cannot happen.

Jazz sees Prowl walking franticly toward them and stops with a word to Ironhide, the bigger mech pauses also and waits on the tactician to reach them. Neither know what to say to the mech when he nears. What could they say? His home has been leveled. His old friends slaughtered like scraplets in the streets.

Prowl stops abruptly in front of the two mechs and shoves the sparkling swiftly but uncertainly into Ironhide's servos, he struggles to keep his faceplates void of emotion. "Here," he manages. His own vocals sound foreign to his audios. Emotionless. Dead. Dead like her.

Witless as to what is transpiring and much to Prowl's relief; Ironhide takes the yellow sparkling and stares at Prowl.

The tactician quickly makes his getaway while the two stand there in stupor. There, Ironhide is much more suited to protect the sparkling than he is. Yes, Ironhide will take care of him. Ironhide stands and watches the offbeat Praxian scurry away after thrusting a little yellow something into his servos. The big black mech glances at Jazz, who in turn just stares at Prowl's retreating form.

"Well," Jazz says with a snort as he stares after his friend, "that wasn't odd at all."

"No slag," Ironhide mutters and looks down wondering what Prowl could have possibly given him.

A sparkling?!

The Weapon Specialist's stares dumbfound at the little bot in his arms. He exchanges a look of pure shock with Jazz as the recharging mechling gives a tiny click. They found the tiny yellow baby 'bot online…in this!? Ironhide glances around the remains of the proud city, the wreckage of a horrible holocaust in which they only found three survivors yet. One being this new born mechling! Ironhide feels a glitch coming on ant the sheer improbability of the situation as he walks in a daze toward Optimus. Did he know about the sparkling yet? What will they do with him?

"Optimus," the black mech calls to his leader. The Prime and Ultra Magnus turn toward him tiredly with worn, tired optics. Both mechs' gazes fall to the sparkling in the black mech's arms, their orbs intensify in brightness as they take in the sight of the young survivor.

Optimus is the first to speak after a long while of staring at the recharging sparkling, "Is he functional?"

"We don't know," Jazz pipes in, "Prowl just handed him over then took off."

: Ratchet, : Optimus comms the medbot, : have you examined the yellow mechling? :

: Yes, : Ratchet replies immediately, : why, has there been complications? : The medic's vocals ring with worry.

: No, do not worry, old friend, : Optimus reassures him swiftly, : he seems fine. :

: Optimus, : Ratchet says after a time of silence, : I am needed in the Med Bay at once, Code and Line have attempted an energon transfusion with the mech and there has been difficulties. I will leave Jolt and First Aid here. : There is a pause before the medic adds : And I am dragging Prowl's sorry carcass back with me whether her want to come or not, he is not stable enough to be out here, : the C.M.O.'s tone is harsh.

: I understand, : Optimus says before ending the link and turning back to his followers, "Keep searching. If there is three, there is hope."

* * *

_I know... I ended it in a very corny way. But hey, its kind of happy. Like a light at the end of the dark tunnel. (I will not reveal if that light is a train or not. You will have to wait in agony. Mwhahaha)_

_Let me know what you think. I love to hear from the fellow readers of FF. Constructive criticism is welcome, but flames will be used tO FIREBEND MY ENEMIES INTO NOTHING BUT A MEASLEY HEAP OF TWICE INCINERATED AND FINELY CRUSHED ASH (Yeah, I'm a fan of that) lol_


	3. Chapter 2

_Okay, first off, I'm not even going to say sorry. I had everything ready to update on Friday and then suddenly Fanfiction decided that it should do drugs... or something. Is anyone else having problems? I will describe my little episode. So the place that I usually copy and paste from my wordpad usually is the length of my screen, I went on there and it had transformed into a tiny box about the height of a finger and the length of a toe. I thought, okay, I'm cool with this. I can roll with this. Wrong. I pasted and saved, Voila! All my paragraphs are smushed together. That happened twice. But that is nothing compared to this times happening. This time I hit the save button and half of every paragraph was missing and no matter how many times I deleted it and redid it, it wouldn't upload right... Fanfiction... get your ducks in a row. I can't deal with your junk._

_Sincerely,_

_**Komanah24**_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"What are we going to do with him?" Ultra Magnus asks, his gaze filled with pity and wonder not leaving the sparkling in Ironhide's servos. The four mechs present remain silent, unsure of what to say or if they should even try to reach a decision without the rest of the Prime's council.

"I think we should keep him!" a mech pipes up from behind them. They all turn as one to the one who had spoken and see a tall, tri-colored mech appraoching.

"Hot Rod," Optimus warns the young mech as he comes to a stop in front of the powerful Prime, "I told you to guard the ships."

"And I've got two teams guarding them both right now, so why don't you relax?" Hot Rod suggests as he allows his stark blue gaze to travel over the ruin of Praxus. His optics whiten fractionally and narrow in a sign of the young mech's anger at the Decepticons.

"Why do you think we should keep this sparkling at the base?" Ultra Magnus asks with his own optics hard as he questions his youngest brother.

Hot Rod cocks an optic ridge at Ultra Magnus and smiles disarmingly, "I think the question is, 'why wouldn't we keep the sparkling at the base?'"

Ultra Magnus frowns, "Lots of large bots can squish him, he could get lost, or worse. He would not be happy, because everyone that would care for him are warriors... not caretakers. Besides that, we have no idea how to raise a sparkling."

"You, Optimus, and Dad did it," the tri-colored mech points out.

"Yes, and maybe that is the reason you are the way you are," Ultra Magnus responds in total seriousness. Hot Rod snorts in disagreement as Ultra Magnus continues, "We should take him to a youth sector"

"Yeah!" Hot Rod says with a false smile, "Because he will be _so_ happy at an orphanage! Filled with lots of different, unfamiliar, too-happy, fembot caretakers, he will get to be bullied by all the other older younglings," the young mech gestures with his servos to convey his point, "Then he'll get to live every youngling's dream of never having true friends, or knowing who his creators were. He'll be able to grow up bitter, with hatred boiling in his energon," Hot Rod clenches his fist and shakes it wildly in a dramatic display of anger, "then he'll enlist with the Decepticon cause, and eventually be offlined by Ultra Magnus." Hot Rod ends his narration with a defeated slump of his shoulder struts.

"Go back to your post," Ultra Magnus says with irritation showing for his brother's antics.

"Is that Magnus, my brother speaking, or is it _ Ultra_ Magnus, my commander?" Hot Rod asks with a mocking inflection.

"Both," Ultra Magnus replies evenly.

Hot Rod narrows his gaze at the light blue mech and a scowl pulls at his lip-plates. He salutes in rigidly with his helm wagging in half mockery before he turns and saunters back toward the ships.

Ultra Magnus internally fumes as he turns back to the other three bots standing around him, "Any other thoughts on the matter?"

"I don't think he's wrong about the youth sectors," Jazz says quickly as he watches Hot Rod sulk back to the two battleships.

"He's going to turn out a spoiled little glitch if he stays at the base," Ironhide mutters with a scowl at Jazz, "he should go to a place where bots can properly care for him, not where he will get the most attention."

Optimus nods thoughtfully, "You are right, Ironhide, we will look about placing the mechling in a youth sector after Ratchet has cleared his safely out of danger from his broken Carrier bond. Until then you will watch over him." Ironhide frowns deeply at the order but says nothing as Prime continues, "Take him back to Iacon, he does not need to see this carnage anymore."

Ironhide nods without showing his distaste for being saddled with sparkling duty and immediately comms Piston, the tactical Second in Command, for a ground bridge back to Iacon. Just as the glowing blue orb appears in front of the large mech, the sparkling's big round optics flutter open and online. He whirrs in confusion as he looks at the large, black chest his helm was resting on. He looks up at Ironhide's faceplates and his huge optics round in horror. Ironhide's spark clenches painfully at the little sparkling's terror. It is clear the poor mechlet had been expecting to see someone else as his optics frantically scan the surrounding area and a tiny, mournful whimper escapes him. The sparkling doesn't find the one he is so desperately searching for and sags against Ironhide's chest once more with big doe tears running down his cheek plates, sobbing softly in utter defeat.

Ironhide decides it wise not to try to comfort the little bot with words at this moment, and instead, holds him more protectively against his chest armor hoping the close proximity to his strongly pulsing spark will do the trick. It does. The sobs soften into sniffles as the mechling listens to the steady beat under the warm armor of his holder. His chin plating still shakes as he stares down at nothing, but he is calm.

As the weapons specialist exits the ground bridge he protectively covers the yellow sparkling with his large servo to shield him from the penetrating gawkers that would probably send the mechlet into throes of keening again. The runt has had enough to deal with, he doesn't need scary gawkers too.

"What is the rescue count?" Piston asks evenly as Ironhide emerges from the bridge.

"Three."

Piston's optics constrict with a concealed anguish and he hastily turns back to the computer to shut down the ground bridge with his jaw hinge clenched painfully. His armor is flared angrily and is quivering with emotion at the sudden loss he feels. Among the deactivated masses of Praxians are some of the tactician's closest friends, mechs and femmes he trained with... that were his friends.

"Any offlined Cons?" Piston asks with his vocals raw and his back still toward Ironhide.

The black mech allows a rare satisfied smile grace his features, "Yeah, quit a few."

Piston gives a half laugh with no humor. It sounded more like a choked back sob to Ironhidee, but who was he to judge? The tactician glances back at the weapons specialist and gives a short, pleased nod, glad to be reassured his friends didn't go down without dragging some Cons down with them. In a way it is its own little form of morbid comfort.

Ironhide leaves Piston to his own and exits the Tactical Office with his servos still firmly covering the sparkling. The sniffling seems to have stopped. He risks a peek at the mechling only to nearly run over a certain pink, femme Commander.

"Ironhide!" Elita greets him, clearly surprised at nearly being overrun by the larger bot.

Ironhide clamps his servos back together over the sparkling before answering, "Sorry about that, Lita." His frame heats slightly when he spots Elita1's beautiful, light blue sister standing beside her with her optic ridge raised in an unimpressed way at his shortening of Elita's designation. Chromia doesn't like him very much, she never did, and her dislike for him seems to only have grown since she and her sisters moved back to Iacon. Her optics scrutinize him carefully and his spark pulse speeds up at her inspection. He scowls, his ' spark condition' seems to have worsened since her return.

"Is Optimus back?" Elita asks with concern, completely oblivious to Ironhide's and Chromia's current glaring contest. She doesn't seem to mind that he called her Lita, why would Chromia? Femmes... so slagging confusing.

"No, he and the others are still in Praxus," the weapon specialist replies not taking his optics off of Chromia.

"Why are you back then?" The blue femme challenges.

Ironhide's gaze narrows at her, "Optimus sent me."

"Why?" She persists.

Irritation flushes through his systems and he opens his mouthplates to smart her off, but before he can snap at Chromia, Elita speaks up, "I will go help prepare another ship of warriors to search through the lunar cycle_ (night)_She doesn't seem to notice that she is speaking to no one in particular as Ironhide and Chromia glare at one another.

"Sounds wise, Lita," Ironhide finally replies with a curt nod, "if you'll excuse me though..." he passes the two sisters not sparing even a glance at Chromia, knowing that she is quite peeved with him now. For some reason this knowledge pleases him greatly.

He is barely four yards down the hall when he hears her call out to him, "Hey, mech,wait for me." He stops in the hall with his back struts rigid as he listens to her say goodbye to Elita. She comes trotting down the hall after him, her heelstruts clicking with every step and, annoyingly, causing his spark to jump with every pede-step. His vents hitch as she comes next to him and he fights the urge to transform and go tearing down the hall like Unicron is venting on his neckplates. "Walk me to the rec. room?" Her request is more of a demand. Ironhide scowls and gives her what he hopes is an annoyed look. She doesn't seem to notice his displeasure so he drops it and gesture toward the hall in a command to start walking.

Their walk is silent, not that Ironhide minds in the least. He fixates his optic in the distance and ignores the fembot beside him with surprising eas until she speaks up again, "How many survivors were found?"

"Three so far," Ironhide supplies and he glances at her to see how she handled depressing news.

"Fragging Cons. I'd love to shove my cannons up their exhaust port," Chromia growls lowly. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. Ironhide crushes the urge to grin at her words. It seems like he has to do that a lot around her. Truly, he has never seen a fembot as rough as Chromia, and he has a theory that she could keep up with Ratchet if she put her processor to it. She just gives him the irritating impulse to smile... all the fragging time.

Glancing at the femme, he sees her optics is trained on the hallway they are walking so the mech takes the opportunity to scan over her faceplates. His gaze travels over her beautiful, strong features and pauses at her glaring gaze. Her sharp blue optics turn to meet his and he holds her gaze for a few nano-kliks_ (seconds)_ before he casually looks forward again. His calm recovery after being caught staring is impressively collected considering that when her optics met his, his spark nearly ruptured from panic.

Ironhide hopes that she can't hear his spark pulsing and decides that it would be wise to speak aloud to cover any possible noises that might actually be audible from its furious hammering in his chassis, "Is there any particular reason you wanted me to walk with you or is this just a social visit?"

"I have been here for a while now," Ironhide feels a strange disappointment at her words, "and I am ready to be put back on active duty," she states assertively.

Ironhide raises his optic ridge at her, "Have you gone to Ratchet for a physical?"

The femme cringes at his question, "No, but I had one a few stellar cycles ago in Tyger Pax. If I could get Ratchet proof of that, do you think I would still have to get a physical?" She asks so hopefully that he black mech again has to fight the urge to smile. She was just so...

He cuts off his processing before he can finish his thought and scowls instead, he practically growls an answer at her, "Yes, you still have to get one." Her hopeful look vanishes and she glares back at him as he says, "Sorry femme, its protocol. You're on your own." Ironhide turns and continues down the hall leaving a fuming femme behind him. He can her grunt in irritation as she storms into the rec room and he again almost smiles at the mental image of her faceplates angry and heated. She will hate him for a while and will avoid him for some time until she cools down, which is fine by him. The less he sees of her the better.

* * *

Later that lunar cycle _(night) _Ironhide carries the yellow sparkling into his chambers. He begins to lay the little mechlet down on the tiny berth Ratchet had insisted that Ironhide take into his quarter for the sparkling, but finds the young one's optics wide open and staring. A barely restrained groan tickles at the weapons specialist's glossa as he peers at the sparkling's large and completely awake orbs. The mechling mews pathetically and his small optic ridge furrows into a harsh line as the larger bot looks down on the him.

"You'd better recharge," Ironhide mutters as he lays the sparkling down on the small berth without a second thought on the matter. As the black mech turns to his own berth he hears the sparkling sit up and start fussing. He turns back to him with a scowl and wonders what could be wrong with the frail thing now. The runt is holding his servos out and is crying worrisomely after him.

Ironhide frowns as he returns to the mechling's berthside and scans him to see if anything minor is amiss with him. He is astonished to find that the young thing's energy levels are dropped below the fifty percentile. Sparklings this young should be kept _above_ fifty _at least_. He probably hasn't been refueled since they found him in Praxus. Too long.

Ironhide plucks him off the berth and trudges to the rec room tiredly, unmentionably glad it is so late in the lunar cycle_ (night)_ so no one will be there. He isn't in the mood to deal with anyone anymore. The sparkling is enough.

The rec room consists of a long bar running off the left wall with 14 bar stools. Many regular tables are sitting around the large room in no specific pattern, the femme bartender is busy wiping them off with a polishing rag, and there are five large steel couches lining the right wall. Behind the bar is three large energon tanks filled with high grade, medium grade, and low grade energon. All three tanks have large round tubes extending out of the top that disappear into the wall behind them into the energon storage room, keeping all the tanks full. Beside the energon vats there are little containers of delicacies to add to the energon to improve the taste such as rust flakes, mercury drops, and oil. Behind the bar along the wall there is the kitchen of the bartender where oil cakes, rust sticks, energon goodies, and many other treats are made. Ironhide himself always thought it odd to indulge in the sweets when energon should suffice for every need.

The black mech slides onto one of the barstools with his optics narrowed in forced concentration. He shifts the mechling in his arms as he wonders exactly what sparklings like to eat, maybe low grade? The femme bartender comes around the counter from cleaning off the tables and looks at Ironhide expectantly with her own optics unimpressed at their late arrival. Obviously she was hoping she was done working for this cycle_ (day)_.

"One low grade," Ironhide orders gruffly and hopes that it is right. He should have asked Ratchet about it before.

"Do you want something to dilute it?" the femme asks as she eyes the yellow mechlet with a trace of a knowing smile on her lip plates.

Ironhide nods, that would probably be best... she probably knew more about sparklings than he did... The femme brings the energon and pours it into a cube before them, then adds the dilatant with a faint smirk when the mechling sits up and giggles with excitement at the sight of the glowing fuel. She swiftly reaches under the counter, pulls out a titanium tip and latches it onto the side of the cube. With a friendly and encouraging grin, she pushes it towards the runt and he grabs at it with a peel of elated laughter.

The bartender watches with a pleased expression as the little twerp drains the cube viciously. Ironhide stares as the tiny thing chugs the cube's contents greedily, only pausing for a vent or two, before slurping the rest of the glowing fuel without so much as a blink of an optic. The contents where consumed. The little mechling grants Ironhide a satisfied, energon-covered smile then yawns widely.

Ironhide nods a quick thank you to the bartender and swipes the mechlet off the bartop before he can topple off. Swiftly he walks back to his chambers, the mechlet falling asleep on the way. Ironhide smiles, good, maybe the runt will be set for the rest of the lunar cycle_ (night)_. One could hope...

* * *

Ironhide slowly opens and onlines his optics early the next solar cycle_ (day)_. A groan escapes his lip plates as he checks his recharge levels. Not even up to sixty percent. Slag. At least he doesn't have to train a class this cycle too, with the whole mess at Praxus pretty near everything is at a stand still at Iacon until they get everything worked though and sorted out. Ironhide wonders briefly if anyone would miss him if he would just lay in his berth a little longer... since the runt is finally being quiet.

It felt like all he was doing throughout the lunar cycle_ (night)_ was get up, feed crying sparkling, clean up a lubricant mess, comfort scared sparkling, try to recharge, and repeat. The femme bartender thought it was cute how many time the pair of them had shown up. Frag her. Then when the mech thought all was taken care of and the mechlet was satisfied, he decided he wanted to sleep in Ironhide's berth. Ironhide wasn't fond of the idea, but the runt was persistent. Eventually Ironhide decided that he valued his recharge more than his personal space. Since then everything has been quiet. Blessedly quiet.

Ironhide frowns, he must get up. If no one else notices his absence, Prowl will. And Prowl will find him.

He reaches behind him to feel for the baby bot and feels... nothing... Nothing? Wha! Ironhide launches up and scans the room with a mumbled curse. The sparkling energy signal is nowhere in his chambers. How did he get out?!

The weapons specialist hastily unlocks his chamber doors and runs out of his quarters, instantly expanding his readers to pick up the mechling's signature. He picks up Prime's... Slag. And Prowl's... Of all the slagging bots.

"Ironhide, how is the sparkling this solar cycle _(day)_?" Optimus asks with a smile as he nears the black mech.

"I would tell you if I knew," Ironhide growls as he wonders again how in tarnation the runt managed to escape his chambers. Prowl gives him and odd and somewhat confused look so the weapons specialist mutters grumpily, "I lost him."

Prowl's right optic twitches before he swiftly says, "I will alert the base communications and have them announce over the public comms to watch for the missing sparkling."

Optimus nods swiftly and replies, "Ironhide and I will continue to search for him," as Prowl saunters away Optimus turns to Ironhide, "I will check the recreation room."

"I'll search the training hangers, who knows how far he got," Ironhide says as Optimus turns and heads toward the refueling stations.

Ironhide whirls and saunters toward the training hangers with a curse for every step he takes. Trust this to happen. He is terrible with sparklings! As the weapons specialist walk he receives a private comm from Optimus, he answers it gruffly, : Yeah Prime? :

: Do not worry, Ironhide, he will turn up somewhere, : the young Prime's baritone vocals tires to reassure his friend.

: I hope so, : Ironhide vents harshly as he nears the training hangers then cuts the link. A loud hoot of laughter catches his as he enters the first hanger and draws his optic to a pair of bots circling one another on a training mat. Hot Rod and Springer. Ironhide scoffs inwardly at the pair before he resumes his search of the hanger.

The two have been inseparable since sparklinghood; their friendship only growing stronger over the vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ as they matured into young mechs. It never surprised anyone that the two became friend in the first place. Sure they were polar opposites to each other, but that fact didn't faze the two at all. They both played their own roles as buddies.

Springer was the noble, brave bot, always saving everyone (mainly Hot Rod) from situations they got themselves into, always feeling an extreme responsibility for everyone around him; Ironhide always had a hunch that this characteristic might be linked to the run in the young mech had with Megatron when the whole kidnapping fiasco went down. Springer is more levelheaded of the two young mechs, thus Ironhide's preferred one to work with. His is almost too optimistic for the weapons specialist's taste though. He's not an overly short bot, only a helm shorter than Hot Rod, even though he is older by a vorn (83 earth years), and is still being trained in Ironhide's advanced classes. Admittedly he is one of Ironhide's favorite students because of his unique ability to have two alternate modes without slowing his system. In Ironhide's opinion, Springer, designated for the tremendous leaping power in his leg struts, will make a perfect leader some cycle_ (day)_.

And then there was Hot Rod. Ironhide scowls as his processor conjures up all the woes he has been subjected to thanks to that little fragger. He's a charmer, the femmes love him and practically fall over themselves to get his attentions. His brash and brutal fighting style always rubbed Ironhide the wrong way, but as hard as it was, and still is, to admit, he is a wonderful fighter. His superb abilities earned him an early graduation from Ironhide's training. It might have also been that the black mech was just tired of putting up with the younger bot's slag. The headstrong tendencies of the tri-colored mech made training him difficult and he still refuses to completely listen to the commands of his superiors. In short, one arrogant little fragger and, Primus help them all, a Prime in training.

Since he was graduated several orns ago the young mech has been put on active duty under Optimus, leaving Springer without a sparring partner. Springer had been mournful and complained of not having any challenges until Arcee had returned. Thank Primus she did. Springer had requested her as a sparring partner and she quickly proved that she could keep up with him. Ironhide permitted the pairing because it shut the light green mech up. Since then the two have grown considerably closer than she and Hot Rod.

Ironhide smirks at the thought, before he turns back to the job at servo. Finding the sparkling. Optimus might have found him by now since the mechlet should know the way to the rec room by spark since they traveled there a total of eight times throughout the lunar cycle _(night)_. He starts to comm Optimus when he notices something that he hadn't before. Ironhide's optics narrow suspiciously and he walks forward to check exactly what Hot Rod and Springer are doing on the training mat.

Springer is narrating a battle. Ironhide rolls his optics, Hot Rod was always capable of bringing out the inner stupid in every mech.

"The two powerful leaders circle each other in an epic battle of the ages! They know that this is the moment that will determine the outcome of the Great War! The best the Autobots have to offer against the one and only, horrendous Galvatron!" Springer exclaims with much emphasis. Hot Rod cackles evilly, obviously supposed to be playing the part of the huge warmonger. "This is it!" Springer shouts excited as he stops with his back toward Ironhide, "One battle to determine the final victor! One battle to free Cybertron or enslave it forever! One shall stand!"

"And one shall fall!" Hot Rod bellows in a loud projecting voice with a giant, slag-eating grin on his faceplates.

Ironhide snorts in annoyance and he turns to leave the two mechs to their sparklingish play, but as he is he catches sight of a tiny yellow streak flying from Springer's servos and bouncing onto Hot Rod's chest. Ironhide's spark nearly stalls as he realizes exactly what, or whom, that little yellow streak is. The sudden, crushing worry blossoms into a spitting rage as the sparkling miraculously latches onto Hot Rod's chest plates and the tri-colored mech tumbles to the ground on purpose with the squealing baby bot on top.

"Noooooo! You got meeee!" Hot Rod moans playfully causing fits of laughter to erupt from the sparkling.

Ironhide's optics narrow as his fury builds. Those two good, fragging, wastes of space... he doesn't even finish his thought as he stalks toward the two mechs and the sparkling with a growl. He snatches the sparkling off Hot Rod's chest with a low snarl. The little mech chirps in surprise at the sudden movement and blinks up at Ironhide as the black mech sets him softly on a nearby, empty weapon table. Ironhide pats the baby bot's helm carefully to assure him that he isn't in trouble before he turns.

"Slag..." Hot Rod whispers as Ironhide's optics meet his.

"I'll give you two glitch-helms an 'epic battle of the ages'!" he roars and charges at them. Springer lunges to the right, while Hot Rod flips over his ex-teacher.

: Prowl! : Springer yells franticly over the public comm. : We need assistance immediately in the Training Facility, hanger 1! Hurry! He's gone nuts! Gah! : he squalls as Ironhide grabs him by his back armor and tosses him through the air. He lands directly on Hot Rod, who was trying to make a sneaky escape.

The little yellow sparkling bounces up and down on his perch with excited bouts of laughter escaping from him at his playmates and claps at the show before him. He giggles as Ironhide grabs both of the two dazed troublemakers and knocks their helms together before letting them fall tot he ground at his pedes. Ironhide would be lying if he said he wasn't happy to whack the pair of them over the helm and that he enjoyed the fact that the sparkling thought it was funny.

"Ironhide!" Prowl's vocals cause the black mech to turn to see the tactician saunter in followed by Optimus, Sonic-blaster, Ratchet, and Jazz, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Just had to take care of a pest problem, they deserve far worse," Ironhide says unremorsfully as he retrieves the tiny sparkling.

The mechling's optics travel over the new comers then land on Prowl. He stretches his short stubby arms in the H.T.s direction with an inquiring beep and a happy grin. Ironhide wordlessly gives him to Prowl, who looks almost panicked for a nano-klik_ (second)_ before he frowns at Ironhide and begin lecturing him on the 'proper protocol', that he must be a good influence on the young optics present, brig time, and blah, blah, blah, blah.

"I think he likes you Prowler," Jazz says with a grin after the sparkling lays his yellow helm on the Head Tactician's chassis and grins like he is holding the universe by the tail. Prowl's doorwings flare out slightly as the mechling giggles wildly against him, he doesn't seem to notice Jazz's use of his unwanted nickname.

"I see you found the sparkling Ironhide," Optimus notes with a smile at the grinning mechling before he continues, "I looked into the possibility of turning him over to a youth sector yester-cycle_ (yesterday)_ and there is one not to far from here that I believe would take care of him well."

Ironhide's spark twists unexpectantly and he immediately grabs the mechling out of Prowl's servos and hand him to Ratchet.

"What!" Ratchet exclaims as he realizes that he is about to be saddled with the responsibility of taking the mechlet to the orphanage.

"Me and Prowl are busy," Ironhide explains and barely registers Prowl correcting his speech with a quiet mutter of 'Prowl and I'.

"Doing what?!" Ratchet snaps.

Ironhide shrugs and points at Prowl, "I've got brig time," he states matter-of-factly. With that he walks down the hall with Prowl at his heels who looks somewhat perplexed that he seems excited to go to the brig.

"Well, I've got to take care of those two gl-i-i-tter heaps," Ratchet says barely catching himself from swearing in front of the sparkling as he gestures to Hot Rod and Springer, who are picking themselves off the ground. The medic hands the sparkling to Sonic-blaster, who shakes his helm.

"Sorry, I've got to head back out to Praxus to help Ultra Magnus," the S.I.C. says.

"I have reports to write out," Jazz says with a smile of sympathy before hurrying after Sonic-blaster.

Optimus and Ratchet exchange a glance and the medic raises his optic ridge in silent question.

"I have a meeting with Alpha Trion and Vector Prime," Optimus says with an apology in his baritone vocals.

Ratchet almost lets an unbelieving squeak escape as he watches the Prime walk away, and he keeps the colorful words he wants to say in check, for the sparkling's sake. How did _he_ get the job of taking the mechling to the youth sector?! Ratchet didn't want to take him there in the first place! He wanted to keep him at the base so he would be well looked after! Not that he wouldn't be in an orphanage.

"I can take him Ratch!" Hot Rod pipes up as he pulls himself off the floor and flashes the C.M.O. a grin.

"Hot Rod," Ratchet cautions, "I need to check you for injuries first!"

Hot Rod shrugs, "Pfft! Injuries! It takes more than that to get me down." With that he snatches the little sparkling out of Ratchet's servos and marches toward the hanger door tossing the sparkling into the air as he does. The mechling's gasp of elation is heard clearly as he soars through the air and back into Hot Rod's servos "Come on, Bug!" Hot Rod laughs as he throws the mechlet again. This time the sparkling finds his vocals and shrieks with laughter as he tumbles back down into the tri-colored mech's grasp.

"Be careful with him!" Ratchet yells after their retreating forms.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Hot Rod says sending a scowl toward the medbot before setting the sparkling on his shoulder, the little sparkling wraps his tiny arms around the mech's neckwires and his little limbs don't even reach halfway around. "Hang on tight, Bug!" Hot Rod says playfully before sprinting down the halls toward the base exit.

Ratchet bellows after the mech, "Slow down you're going to make him..." wait! Bug? Hot Rod is calling the sparkling Bug?! Ugh! That mech! If Ratchet had a wrench nearby he surely would have thrown it. Not that it would do any good, for Hot Rod is already far into the base halls and calling helloos to everyone he passes.

Hot Rod grins at the sound of the giggles by his helm and makes his way toward the dark blue frame of Arcee, who is walking quietly down the hall away from him, "Hey, Arcee," he greets her and she stops to face him with a small smile as a greeting. As he halts in front of her the sparkling leaps fearlessly from his shoulder with a squall. The mech catches the air born baby bot with an amused expression, but not before Arcee gasps in horror and almost flings herself to the ground to try to break the mechling's fall. She glares at Hot Rod with her servo over her spark when he laughs at her, "What's the matter?" Hot Rod asks teasingly and begins tossing the sparkling up with one servo repeatedly like a scrap ball to keep the little yellow squealer entertained. The mechlet gurgles with delight at the action.

Arcee only stares heatedly at the mech but stands rigidly in place, ready to intervene and catch the baby bot at a moment's notice. Hot Rod snorts at her lack of faith in his servo and optic coordination.

"This is my buddy," Hot Rod says with a grin to ease the fembot's tension.

"Yours?" she asks nodding her helm at the baby mech.

"Arcee!" Hot Rod exclaims in fake shock, "I'm horrified you would suggest I would have a sparkling outside of bondage!"

"Bondage, so that is your take on spark bonds?" Arcee asks laughing.

He smiles crookedly at the femme, "Yeah, we've got somewhere to be at the moment so..." he waves his goodbye and continues down the hall. Hot Rod vaguely hears Arcee yelling after him to be careful and rolls his optics at her worry. Femmes... The little sparkling suddenly begins whimpering pitifully and smacking Hot Rods arms repeatedly with his tiny servos.

What's wrong, Bug?" Hot Rod asks holding the little bot at arm's length optic level. A miserable look comes to the sparkling's faceplates and then...Ugh!

The Bug promptly purges all of his previously ingested energon from his tanks. On. Him. Hot Rod blinks stupidly. Okay, that he wasn't expecting. The gooey, bluish regurgitated liquid drips off of every available surface of the disgusted mech's faceplates and off the moaning sparkling's whole frontal frame. Hot Rod takes in the sparkling's ill expression and suddenly feels bad for causing him discomfort.

"Well, we can't take you to the youth sector like this, now can we?" the guilty mech says gently to the Bug, whose bottom lip plate has began quivering. He places the Bug back on his shoulder and walks calmly to the base's wash racks, leaving a barfed up energon trail behind him. As he turns the corner he sighs and realizes that he is never going to live this one down as Arcee catches sight of the vomit covered duo. She gives the sparkling a pitying look before shooting Hot Rod with a 'you got what you deserved' glare.

She will tell Springer of this, Hot Rod scowls, the two of them are like two scraplets in a pod, and Springer will laugh his helm off.

* * *

Nearly seven breems _(8.3 earth minutes)_ later the pair emerges from the wash racks squeaky clean, but slag, the sparkling had been hard to clean. His wriggling, combined with the difficulty of hanging onto the little Bug after getting him wet, running out after him every few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ when the sparkling would break away and try to make a giggling escape in his protoform _(naked)_, had taken more than a little time.

Bug smacks Hot Rod's shoulder armor and whimpers to show his hunger.

Of course. Barfing equals empty tank.

"All right, we'll make a pit stop Bug," Hot Rod says, feeling bad about making the sparkling sick all over again, "But right after you're refueled I'm taking you to the youth sector."

* * *

_This one turned out fairly long. I hope you liked it._

_Anyway, sorry about that rant on top. But since I don't know if this problem is going to become permanent I cannot promise that I will be able to update every Friday. I will try, but don't hold me to it. We'll see I guess._

_P.S. Thanks for all the reviews :) And just for fun, on your next review feel free to leave a joke (if you can think of one) because I am depressed about this whole FF fiasco and I love to laugh. ;D (You don't have to if you can't think of one. lol)_


	4. Chapter 3

_So FF still isn't acting 100%, but I think we reached an agreement. It doesn't delete half my work when I update and I won't find a way to ruin it. It took some severe negotiations. *Sigh* Anyway, this chapter is more of a filler. Please don't be disappointed. On the bright side it has a lot of Ironhide and Chromia... and it sets the stage for the action in the next chapter! YAY!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

_Frag Ironfist. _A white hot rage spills through Chromia's wires as she storms in front of Prowl on her way to the brig. She has to keep her jaw hinge locked and her gaze glaring or else she would turn around and go stalking back to that fat fragger, Ironfist, and show him just how 'soft' she is. No one, _no one_, makes such degrading comments about her and gets away with it! Chromia's whole frame shivers with her ire as she lets her processor replay the mech's insults back at the rec room, _"Look who's back from Tyger Pax, all_ _soft!" _Her fists clench in fury as she wallows in her bad temper and lets more of the taunts seep through her memory files, _"Come 'ere Chromia, a femme like you will like what I've got to offer."_ A femme like her... A low snarl escapes her lip plates and Prowl puts a servo on her shoulder strut to keep her from charging back to the rec room and dealing with that stupid dolt.

In the end she did get the last word... in a way. After Ironfist had cooed and purred at her and offered her credits like some sort of common pleasure bot she'd hit him. Hard. Hard enough to set him on his better-than-thou-art aft with energon staining his olfactory sensor. To bad someone had seen Ironfist acting like the slag-wad he is and called Prowl in case there was trouble. Idibots, Chromia never needs backup against one measly mech that can't keep his mouthplates shut. They all must think that she's gone soft since she went to Tyger Pax. A growl forms at the base of her throat pipes at the thought.

Anyway, in accordance to the curse of everything that could possibly go wrong for her this cycle_ (day)_, Prowl walked in just as she delivered that, oh, so satisfying fist to the face. Apparently verbal harassing does not warrant brig time... apparently physical assault does. Hence, they both are walking in a tense silence toward the brig. Curse this cycle_ (day)_.

Chromia scowls at Prowl's annoying servo on her shoulder armor and tries to think of something snotty to say that won't get her in more trouble. Nothing comes to her processor so she settles for glaring every once in a while at the doorwinger. Frag him. Besides Ironfist had it coming for a while, no femme should be brigged for defending her own honor.

The image of the huge, lewd mech laying on the floor blubbering to Prowl about how she 'attacked' him 'unprovoked' is enough to satisfy her into silence for the moment, and if she is being completely truthful, she doesn't think that Prowl even slightly believed Ironfist. When he had cuffed her per protocol and marched her out of the rec room with her sneering at a pleased Ironfist, he'd assured her quietly that he would 'slap Ironfist with anything he could find'.

Prowl's an alright mech when he's pissed about something.

The phrase the Praxian used is what humored Chromia the most and now the mental image of Prowl giving Ironfist a healthy whack is seared into her processor. Even now it makes her bad mood lighten and a smirk flit across her faceplates.

Elita will probably laugh too, Chromia smirks to herself. Her pink sister unit always held a high opinion of Prowl and a low one of Ironfist ever since the mech was recruited. Yes, Chromia will definitely be sharing the happenings of this cycle with her. Even as these thoughts cross the light blue fembot's processor she sends visual and audio files of her Ironfist smack-down to Elita along with Prowl's entrance and his softly spoken promise as he led her out of the rec room.

Barely a klik_ (1.2 earth min.)_ later Elita pings her in a private comm. Chromia answers it with a grin as she continues walking down the hall with Prowl slightly behind her and to her right, : Hey, Elita. :

A boisterous laugh cuts through the link and Elita pants, : You have no idea how much I needed that! :

: Glad to be of service, sis, : Chromia replies before Prowl guides her down another hall toward the brig. : I've got to go, alright? I've got a sentence to carry out. :

: Don't get too comfortable. I doubt you'll be in there long. : Elita is still chuckling as she ends the link and the comm line goes silent.

Chromia shakes her helm as Prowl opens the door to the holding cells, Elita is nuts. She willingly bonded to a mech who's brother single handedly started the Great War and sparkling napped his own little brother, Hot Rod, with the bright idea of offlining the whole family when they came to rescue him so the Original Seven Primes would have to choose him to be the next Prime. Chromia rolls her optics, mechs, they only thought about four things; femmes, fighting, power, and high grade.

Megatron did manage to extinguish the spark of his mech creator though. His brothers escaped, much to the fragger's dismay, and before Sentinel deactivated he revealed to Optimus that the Original Seven chose Hot Rod to be the next Prime. Chromia huffs at the thought and Prowl looks at her oddly as he guides her down the row of cells. She ignores the tactician and scowls at the mental image of Hot Rod that pops into her processor. Primus! If that little glitch costs the Autobots the war she will bend him over backwards and shove his helm up his tailpipe! Not like it isn't there already...

Prowl stops her with a grunt that makes her cock one optic ridge at him and as the Praxian opens her designated cell she frowns. Prowl's been acting a little off this cycle_ (day)_. He's probably depressed about Praxus. He had friends there no doubt, perhaps even family.

As Chromia stalks into the small cell she turns and gives Prowl her typical glare as he locks the cell door behind her. He just soaks in her hard look with no expression on his faceplates and walks out of the brig without even giving the guard, one of the Wreckers designated Bulkhead, a glance. Yep, something is definitely bothering the doorwinger.

Chromia peers through the brig's bars and looks the large, dark green Bulkhead from helm to pede. He has an enormous main frame and is easily one of the strongest bot's in the Autobot faction, which also accounts for his zero stealth abilities. His trademark weapon is two sub-spaced wrecking balls, which Chromia always secretly admired... what could she say? She likes tough mechs. Him being a Wrecker is a bonus point. The Wreckers take missions no one else will; the missions that send them to the Pit and back.

When Bulkhead fidgets under her narrowed gaze she smirks and turns away from him. The mech is nice, really soft-sparked, and she always found it hard to look mad at those kind of bots... even if they are on guard duty in the brig. Chromia flops back on the berth on her skidplate and sighs aloud, it seems she has turned into a regular in the brig. Speaking of regulars, she thinks as she glances into the cell across the hall from her.

The mech is sitting on his cell's berth, leaning against the wall with his left leg pulled up and his elbow strut propped up on his knee plating. She slowly looks him over as she did Bulkhead. Wide shoulders, big-built arms, large, proud chest, thick, gleaming, black armor, and the biggest aft cannons she had ever seen. She smirks, and possibly the most handsome faceplates too. Ironhide, everything a mech should be. Yes, she just thought that and she is not ashamed. What femme didn't?

Unlike Bulkhead, who's hulking frame was intended for construction work, this mech is built for war and destruction. His drive to offline 'Cons is somewhat inspiring at times, though his seeming lack of kindness could be intimidating. Chromia frowns and wonders if she's ever seen the mech show a sensitive side to indicate he even has a spark like a normal Cybertronian... Nope.

Ironhide's optics shift toward her and he meets her stare though the holding cell's bars. His piercing gaze sends a shiver up her backstruts, but she refuses to look away. She never shows awe or fear standing in front of any Con, so there is no way a cranky weapons specialist is going to stare her down. It helps boost her confidence when she remembers suddenly that he is completely love-struck with her. A scoff almost leaps from her vocalizer at the thought, just like any other mech. She shoots him a fake, sweet smile that always made the mechs at Tyger Pax fall to her pedes in a quaking puddle of adoring goo.

Ironhide gives her a highly unimpressed raise of his optic ridge before he leans his helm against the wall and goes back to ignoring her.

Chromia frowns deeply and sits up straighter. His assessment of her has gone down... why? She clears her vocals subtly and scowls when he doesn't look at her like a smitten mech would. She rises to her pedes and sighs a little then glances back at him quickly... he hasn't moved nor turned to look. He is ignoring her! No one ignores her! She scowls to emit some of the slighted anger piling up in her core. Sometimes the noble energon running through her wires can easily be spotted. She hates herself as she feels like thwarted, prissy fembot.

"So what are you in for?" she asks Ironhide as she forces calm into her systems.

The mech just gives her a 'leave-me-alone' grunt.

Chromia suppresses a huff. What else did she expect from him? It's Ironhide. When his designation is spoken in Decepticon ranks, all who hear tremble, even the two head fraggers themselves, Galvatron and Megatron, have respect for the mech. One does not get that way by being cuddly. In spite of this she decides to try again, if only to annoy him a little.

"So how long have you known Optimus?"

Ironhide opens his optics to look at her disapprovingly before he says with a bad tempered scowl, "That's Prime to you, and I've known him for a long time."

This causes a smile to play on Chromia's faceplates. Now why did her calling Optimus by his given designation bother him? "Hardly," she replies with a smirk, "he is my brother-in-law and a good friend. Besides you call my sister 'Lita. What's the difference?"

"Optimus isn't your friend," Ironhide grunts as he regards her with and unreadable expression that quickly unnerves her, "you hardly know him."

Chromia frowns at his statement but decides not to push the matter and changes the subject abruptly, "Do you ever smile?"

Her question must have surprised him because the only word that comes from him lip plates is a confused, "What?"

"Have you ever seen him smile?" she asks again but this time pointing the question at Bulkhead.

The green 'bot glances at the weapon specialist before shaking his helm. "No I don't think I've ever…seen him…smile," Bulkhead answers uncertainly.

"What the pit kind of question is that, femme?" Ironhide growls gruffly.

"Why don't you?" she presses with a small smile on her own faceplates.

His optics narrow at her and he says finally, "I haven't seen anything worth smiling over for vorns _(1 vorn=83 earth years)_."

Chromia falls silent. He has a point; the war takes something out of a bot. She could feel the beginnings of his draining effects on her own life, causing her to scowl more often and to forget to laugh at the funny things. She is still better off than most in regards to the empty chasm that builds in the spark after so long of causing destruction. Hatred and the need to destroy seems to be consuming the happiness out of countless.

Ironhide is still watching her, waiting to hear her response. He probably feels a little exposed after telling her how he feels on the matter. Or maybe he just values her opinion. "Well," she says softly with her tone more gentle than she would have liked it to be, "maybe you're just not looking hard enough."

The mech's lip plates twitch involuntarily with a ghost smile.

"That's a start," she quips with a wide grin at him.

Ironhide's scowl whips firmly back into place and he glares at her for a moment for getting the better of him. Quickly he lays his helm back against the wall and completely ignores the femme once again.

"We're back to this?" Chromia asks with a smirk. He doesn't answer and she feels a sparkling-like urge to stick her glossa at him. Instead she plops back onto her berth again and counts the kliks_ (1 klik=1.2 earth min.)_ as they pass.

* * *

Only a few breems _(1 breem=8.3 earth min.)_ later Bulkhead walks over to the weapons specialist's cell. He taps a big round digit on the thick adamantium bars to get the mech's attention. "Time's up, 'Hide," Bulkhead calls to him.

Ironhide's optics slowly open and he nimbly hops off the berth. He flexes his arms and neck; he really should watch his temper so he doesn't have to spend so much time in this place. "Thanks, Bulk'," he mutters as he walks out of the cell, "see you soon." His faceplates are completely serious but his voice holds a little humor as he says this. He sees the light, blue femme look up at him in fake astonishment from the corner of his optic. Frag.

"He jokes!" she says rudely with a sarcastic laugh.

Ironhide walks out of the brig and heads toward his quarters pretending to not hear her. Slag! Why could that femme get the exact reactions she wanted from him? He feels like a foolish lovesick sparkling! Speaking of sparklings, he thinks, quickly changing the subject so he would quit thinking about that blasted femme, he wonders if the little yellow sparkling made it to the youth sector.

: Ratchet, where is the sparkling? : He asks the medic gruffly.

The medic answers immediately, : Hot Rod took him to the youth sector almost a joor _(6.5 earth hours)_ ago. :

Ironhide grunts his satisfaction as he ends their communication link without another word. Good, this means he will get a full lunar cycle_ (night)_ of recharge with no hungry sparklings with fight files keeping him up. He won't have to worry about the little mechling being crushed by Hot Rod or Springer either. He sure will miss the little slagger's company though. Ironhide's frowns a little as he thinks how quiet it's going to be back at his own quarters without the yellow tyke. Too quiet. Oh well, what's done is done.

He reaches his private quarters and begins punching in the lock code at the door when his comm lines catch his attention, : Ironhide, report to my office directly. : Optimus' calm baritone vocals orders over the public comm lines.

: On my way, : Ironhide replies swiftly and locks his door again before heading toward the Prime's office. When he reaches the office and enters he sees Optimus sitting behind his desk, Jazz is trying to hassle Prowl, who is standing at attention to the left of Prime. Ultra Magnus is leaning against the wall with Sonic-blaster beside him and Optimus' sparkmate, Elita, is sitting on the large couch in the office along with the last femme Ironhide wanted to see at the moment, Chromia.

Ironhide scowls at her before he can stop himself. She must have been released from the brig at Optimus' orders meaning he is seeking council. A young, red scout stands before Optimus' desk with his servos folded regally behind his back. Ironhide dislikes him immediately but refrains from scalding the pompous looking mech with a glare.

"Mirage has just returned from a routine scouting mission. He reported the movement of a small group of Decepticons mobilizing from Kaon," Optimus fills in the members of his council not wasting a moment. "Prowl has deduced from their lack of using a ground bridge that they do not want to be detected. In conclusion, we must assume that they are after something of great importance."

"How fast were they moving?" Ironhide asks Mirage.

"Very rapidly, approximately ten miles a klik _(1.2 earth minutes)_," Mirage answers smoothly with his accent betraying him as a former noble.

"Who is their leader?" Elita asks hoping it is the Decepticon T.I.C., Starscream. Ironhide can tell by the light in her optics that she still wants to obliterate the seeker for what he did to her Metropolian troops. To tell the truth Ironhide wouldn't mind having a chance to snort in Starscream's faceplates at the fact that Megatron had demoted him from Second in Command to Third in Command because the battle at Metropolis so long ago didn't go the way he had planned.

"Galvatron's femme creation, Blitzer, and his mech creation, Extractor," the scout confirms.

The room falls silent. The Autobots have been hearing quite a bit about the Decepticon leader's young femme lately and one thing is for sure, Galvatron is training her to be his heir. She will make a vicious one at that for she is ruthless on the battlefield. His son, however, still has lots to learn in the areas of combat, he never seems to be present in the brief skirmishes that his elder sibling is gaining such attention in.

"I can take a few soldiers and take care of them," Jazz volunteers easily and both Elita and Chromia smirk at the mech. Ironhide finds he is slightly jealous of the small saboteur. Chromia never smiles at him like that. He scowls at his sudden foolishness as he orders himself to get over it with some embaressment at his line of thinking.

"Actually I was thinking about sending Hot Rod," Optimus says thoughtfully. Ironhide snaps his helm in his commander's direction. Is he serious?!

"Optimus!" Ultra Magnus sputters as he pushes away from the wall in shock with his optics blinking rapidly.

"Now hang on here," Ironhide voices his opinion loudly, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Prime, I would recommend that you send Jazz instead," Prowl is saying at the same time.

"You're sending a mechling to do a femme's job?" Chromia asks in disbelief but her voice is drown out by the others speaking. Elita looks at her sister disapprovingly to let her know she heard and shakes her helm with a small frown. Obviously the pink commander wasn't too sure about her mate's decision but supports him anyway.

"Prime, we cannot overlook the sightings of Quick-plot. Perhaps it would be wiser to send Jazz," Sonic-blaster says lowly under the arguing of the other Autobots for Optimus' audios only. The Prime nods his helm in indication that he heard his S.I.C. before raising a servo to quiet his arguing council. This silences the disagreements from the bots present.

"Optimus," Ultra Magnus warns still addressing the first issue and Optimus watches his older brother with knowing optics. Ever since Megatron had taken their brother from this very base, they have been protective. The agony is still clear in his own processor how he felt when the torture Megatron inflicted on Hot Rod coursed through their brother-bond on an emotional level. It had nearly driven them all insane to find him.

**Brother**, Optimus says gently through their sibling bond, **We have to let him go**. **If we don't he will never grow up and become the Prime he is destined to be**.

Ultra Magnus lowers his optics swiftly before he nods his cranial unit jerkily, knowing Optimus is right and wondering when his younger brother got so much wiser than him.

"Hot Rod is a remarkable fighter and a capable leader." Optimus addresses the room with decisiveness, "He will take the Wreckers with him."

Chromia almost snorts with laughter. There is no way the Wreckers are going to listen to anything Hot Rod says. The whole reason that the Wreckers are at Iacon in the first place is because they once again are leaderless at their own post. Something about an explosion and the mech in charge having to go to the emergency repair room for many 'systematic malfunctions' and 'partial armor loss'. Chromia has her own theory about what happened and it all points in her opinion it all points to Wheeljack. She understands why Optimus wants to send them out though, the Wreckers, if left unactive for more than a couple cycles _(days) _could become a little... rowdy. What she doesn't understand is this apparent neural gasket he's had about putting Hot Rod in charge of them.

The Prime motions to Prowl to call Hot Rod to his office over the private comm. Prowl is silent for a few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ before he turns to look at Optimus. "He is not responding," is tactician's rigid and unimpressed reply. Optimus vents deeply. Hot Rod seems to be rebelling more and more these cycles just by ignoring small orders, smarting off his superiors, and otherwise getting into petty arguments with his brothers about everything. Optimus tries to give him the benefit of the doubt but here of lately Hot Rod hasn't even been trying to meet him half way.

"Go find him, Ironhide," the Optimus commands with his vocals sounding extremely weary of his brother's nonsense. His weapons specialist nods his helm and heads for the door. Ironhide growls as exits the office and inwardly promises himself that some cycle_ (day)_ he is going to kick that glitch-head to one of Cybertron's moons.

"Chromia go with him; make sure he doesn't do anything brash," Ultra Magnus orders and Optimus nods in agreement. The light blue femme nods but wonders why one of the larger mechs didn't go in case the need to contain Ironhide presented itself; they would be able to do a better job than her against the brute of a mech. She follows Ironhide silently through the base's halls trying to make sure he isn't aware of his shadow, he probably wouldn't be impressed with the idea that she is supposed to keep him in line.

Chromia readily accepts this opportunity to freely look over the mech from behind. His enormous arms swing casually with his easy steps and dispite his large size he move with the agility of a cyber-cat. Her optics liberally scan over the mech's back and wide shoulders taking in the sight of two large rifles crisscrossed and attached to his armor. He is in no way lacking firepower. The only mech Chromia could think of that had even close to that many weapons on his frame was Boltwreck, her bodyguard when she was still a young femmeling and living with her parental units. Boltwreck had the same temperament too. Always grouchy. Chromia smirks slightly and refocuses on the weapons specialist in front of her. Her optics continue to travel down…down…down. A vent catches in her throat pipes and she quickly averts her optics as her core temperature spikes in embarrassment. She did not just catch herself staring at the mech's skidplate!

The black mech stops ahead of her to ask her sister Arcee the whereabouts of Hot Rod. The dark blue femme merely points toward the rec room in a displeased manner and a roll of her optics. Ironhide stops short of entering the rec room and turns to look at Chromia with a raised optic ridge. Chromia stares back at him stupidly, his gaze causes a slight surge in her spark energy.

"You coming or not, femme?" he rumbles gruffly.

And she thought she was being stealthy, she has clearly underestimated the mech. Why she would do that is beyond her, especially considering the look of him. She is a highly trained warrior that never made mistakes, and here she has made a very clumsy one. She walks up beside the mech with curious optics.

"If you're here to make sure I don't give Hot Rod a trip to med bay you will find it much easier to do beside me." Ironhide says casually with absolutely no humor in his vocals.

"Smart aft," Chromia mutters with an amused smile on her faceplates. Ironhide allows a small smirk to grace his faceplates and Chromia's spark pulses irregularly. She just caused Ironhide to smile. Again. For the second time in one cycleday).This should be listed as one of her top ten life acheivements. Ok, it wasn't exactly a smile, but it was a form of it. That counts right? She glances to the ground suddenly unable to hold the mech's unsettling gaze as her cooling system kicks in to ease her rising core temperature. What is wrong with her?!

Ironhide opens the rec room door without taking his optics from Chromia. Their gaze remains locked as they observe each other for a moment.

"After you, femme," he finally says presenting the open door with a servo reminding her of her nobility and how all the mechs used to treat her, it was slightly annoying, but yet when Ironhide did it, it was appealing. Even though many of the noble mech suitors avoided her because she tended to act like an uncultured mech from the slums she still missed her life before the war with her creators and sisters. They were happy. Simple.

She enters the rec room ahead of Ironhide and an awkward feeling creeps through her systems as she hears him start walking behind her. What if he is looking at her skidplate?! No, Ironhide wouldn't do that…would he? Not able to hang in suspense any longer Chromia glances swiftly over her shoulder at the mech behind her. His optics snap away from their previous focal point to look straight ahead. Chromia narrows her gaze at him in displeasure and warning. She pauses a moment to allow the mech to walk up next to her before she continues on beside him.

"Don't ever do that again," she says her voice dangerously low and threatening. Silence answers her for a few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ and Chromia believes she has shamed him to remorse. Good, he deserved it!

He then rolls his massive shoulders as he spots a crowd of femmes around one of the couches lining the walls. "Just returning the favor," Ironhide replies easily as he marches toward the group of giggling fembots.

Chromia stops short as her engine sputters in sheer humiliation and indignity. Her core temperature quickly raises and her cooling systems hit their max. He knew?! How?! Chromia wanted Cybertron to open up and swallow her so she never have to see the mech again. Stupid! Chromia quickly pushes her embarrassed feelings and thoughts out of her processor and focuses on her current mission, protecting Hot Rod from Ironhide.

The weapons specialist quickly sends the young femmes on their way with a few grumpy comments scattering them quickly. He looks down at the sight that had gathered them and vents in disappointment and some... relief? There on the large couch is Hot Rod with the little yellow sparkling laying on his chest, both venting deeply.

Chromia finally understands why the femmes of Cybertron are hyped over Hot Rod as she looks at him. He is downright irresistible with the mechling sprawled over top him. The pair would look absolutely serene if the sparkling wasn't drooling all over Hot Rod's chassis. Ironhide looks down at the sparkling with his optics softening slightly. Chromia feels her spark flutter. Maybe she is wrong about this mech? Just as the thought runs through her processor the mech's faceplates visibly harden.

"Capable, my aft," he mutters harshly, "can't even take a sparkling to the youth sector."

Chromia holds back a bark of laughter as Ironhide roughly prods Hot Rod's side. This causes the tri-colored mech to leap off the couch battle ready. The little sparkling lets a fearful squeal and grapples for a hold on Hot Rod's armor, but flies off of his chest with a squall.

"Bug!" the Hot Rod shouts in alarm and quickly attempts to catch the falling sparkling, but he slips out of his servo. He snatches at the sparklet again, only succeeding in bumping him into the air and ends up juggling the little mech like some sort of circus bot. He finally catches the sparkling by one of his legs and the mechlet just squeals in delight. Hot Rod looks up at Ironhide with the giggling baby 'bot suspended in the air and smiles sheepishly.

Ironhide narrows his optics at the young mech as the wires in his arms begin to tick uncontrollably in the need to snatch the sparkling away. Chromia places a servo on the irritated mech's forearm to stop any advancement toward the youngling. Taking in his ex-teacher's infuriated faceplates, Hot Rod looks at the sparkling to see what caused it and sees he is holding the Bug upside down. The Hot Rod's blue optics widen in horror and he swiftly flips the baby bot around before he looks back at his mentor and gives an easy, jovial smile.

"Optimus wants you in his office immediately," Chromia supplies to the young mech, discreetly saving him from Ironhide's wrath. He nods lazily and smiles as he allows his optics to run freely over the length of her mainframe. Chromia narrows her optics at him in a warning gaze. He steps forward and hands the sparkling over to Ironhide.

"Here," he says casually as if he didn't feel the mortal danger he is in from the older mech, either that or he has enough confidence in his fighting skills that he would be able to hold his own. Chromia guesses it's the latter, Hot Rod seems like the cocky type. He pauses in front of her with an attractive smile, and gently grasps her small servo in his larger one pressing it to his lip plates. "Chromia," he says her designation in a purr, his vocals low and playful.

Chromia raises her optic ridge at Hot Rod's mischievousness; unsure whether to be irritated, amused, or flattered. This young mech in front of her is a far cry from the youngling that she had helped save from Megatron all those vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago. She decides to let it pass as harmless flirting; at least he didn't make a lewd comment like Ironfist.

As Hot Rod moves for the exit he brush lightly against her shoulder. She turns and watches him saunter out. The femmes around here really do not stand a chance she decides with a smirk. As she watches the young mech depart she hears Ironhide scoff. She glances at the weapons specialist with highly unentertained optics, demanding he explain himself.

"I didn't peg you for a femme that would fall for Hot Rod's foolish flirting," he says with an I-don't-give-a-scrap shrug.

Chromia grins widely at the mech, jealousy is what they call that. She decide to tease him about it to see his reaction, "Jealous much?"

Ironhide's optic ridge flattens into a straight line and something like irritation colors his optics. He doesn't answer, he only looks down at the squirming sparkling in his arms before he turns wordlessly away and walks out of the rec room leaving an exceedingly confused femme behind.

Frag him.

* * *

_There you have it. They love each other... they just don't know it yet. ;D lol_

_Leave your thoughts in a review. Encourage, critic, point out a favorite part, whatever totes your goats._


	5. Chapter 4

_Hey there everyone. Fanfiction is still acting like its on dope, that accounts for the late update. Is there a way to file a complaint? ;) lol Cause I might have to. Anyway, as I promised last time, here is an actiony chapter! Hoorah!_

_P.S. If you find any mistakes please inform me, because I had to basically rewrite the whole chapter. Thank you._

_P.S.S. Blitzer, Extractor, and that random mech named Lash are my O.C.s just so that you don't get confused or something._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Things are quiet. Too quiet. Blitzer frowns as she transforms and halts her team with a raised servo. She hears her brother Extractor transform beside her and huff loudly in irritation at her delaying.

"We must keep going, Blitzer," Extractor mutters for her audios only, "Our leaders won't be pleased if we do not procure the relic."

Blitzer scowls at her brother before focusing on the land around her once more. Stillness greets her straining audios, "I'm going to comm Soundwave and tell him to have reinforcements ready if something should turn up."

Extractor rolls his ruby optics at her before he snorts, Blitzer tones him out though as she comms the C.O. : Blitzer to Soundwave, Soundwave come in : The purple and black femme listens intently for the reply, but all is silent on the other end. A sudden screech of static suddenly waifs through the links and hisses into her audios. Blitzer winces at the feedback and cuts the line.

"Our comms are down," Extractor growls beside her with a servo to one of his audios. Probably trying to soothe its ringing.

"Autobots," Blitzer says with her faceplates expressionless, "They're overriding our frequencies."

Extractor curses, "How could've they detected us?!"

"More than likely a scout happened upon us," Blitzer replies with a frown. She glances at her surroundings, "We will proceed. Keep your energy detectors alert. We must be at the rendezvous point in seven." She signals for the rest of her team to transform and follow her. Extractor falls into a walk a little to her left and behind her. Just as well, if they would happen to run into Autobots she would rather he would stay behind her. She wouldn't be able to protect his sorry aft if it was in front of her.

She glances at her brother briefly then scowls. Why did her mech creator insist she bring Extractor with? He will only get offlined and even though her brother annoys the slag out of her, she would rather keep him. He is an asset.

They had been sparked at the same time, twins if you will, but not split sparked. She was brought into existence only a few kliks _(1 klik = 1.2 earth min.)_ before him. He had inherited their Carrier's looks and complete lack of combat abilities. The only useful thing he acquire was their mech Creator's unpredictable ruthlessness and ability to make hard decisions quickly.

Blitzer on the other servo is a gifted prodigy in the areas of warfare. Megatron himself couldn't deny it. She acquired her coloring and skill from their father's coding. The only thing Blitzer received from their deactivated mother was her blasted hesitancy to be needlessly cruel. Curse that inheritance to the pit and back.

Because of both twins' weaknesses, Extractor's physical inability and Blitzer's softness of spark, it will take the both of them to rule their father's army when the time comes. This fact annoys Blitzer. If she could just not think on the battlefield. If she would just do without looking into her enemy's optics then she would be perfect. Extractor would be her lesser and she would be the obvious superior.

Something blips on the side of her energy scanner and her though process is redirected. What's this? Her reader beeps again and Blitzer's weapons are subspaced within an astro-second_ (1/2 of an earth sec.). _Her optics narrow as she scans the area around her team again. She hears the mechs behind her begin drawing their cannons and what not. Frag them and their slowness.

The blip on her reader grows in strength and suddenly spreads out. Blitzer is about to turn and issue an order for her team to take cover when light glinting off metal catches her optic. Autobots. More specifically, the Wreckers. Blitzer huffs at her bad luck and studies the mechs as the two groups glare at one another in a quiet predatory way. They're all large mechs with heavy weapons. A bright red mech with red and yellow highlights appears to be the leader of the group, Blitzer doesn't remember ever seeing him before. She counts them swiftly and growls lowly when she realizes that the odds aren't in her team's favor.

One of the Autobot's, a medium sized mech with a white, red and green paint scheme steps forward, "Fancy meeting you Cons out here on this fine cycle _(day)_."

One of her warriors snarls and starts forward with his fist clenched. Blitzer stops him by raising a small, commanding servo and shooting him a warning glare, "Back in line, Breakdown. We're outgunned." Breakdown stops short and sends a withering scowl at the Autobots.

"Yeah, Breakdown, stay," the same Autobot, Blitzer identifies him as Wheeljack, taunts lazily, "Stay with your master, pet."

Breakdown's armor flares and his frame trembles in a building rage and Blitzer subdues him again with a hissed order, "Breakdown, stay put."

He listens... or he would have.

"Now, siiit," the leader of the Wreckers coaxes mockingly. The other Wreckers snicker and snort disgustingly at Breakdown's expense and the latter charges with a roar, unable to take the Autobot insults any longer.

"Breakdown!" Blitzer bellows angrily as he surges toward the Autobots... alone. He is going to get offlined, blast him! Without thinking Blitzer turns to the rest of her followers, "Engage the enemy!" she commands roughly as she whirls while pulling her battle axe from its perch on her back. The rest of the Decepticons charge after her. Blitzer runs faster to catch up with Breakdown and then stays beside him. The moron was going to dive helm long into a fight with the Wreckers while leading the charge by a good length. Idibot!

She and Breakdown meet the Autobots at the same time. The mech that seems to be somewhat in charge of the Wreckers singles her out and lunges at her with a subspaced sword. She blocks his blow and swipes at him. One of the other Wreckers grab her from behind, lifting her into the air, she elbows him in the faceplates causing energon to spurt from his right optic. He drops her with a snarl before he gets tackled by one of her soldiers, Lash.

The large, red, orange and yellow tricolored mech attacks her again as soon as her pedes touch the ground. She dodges and swings her battle axe at his chassis with a snarl on her lip plates. Much to her annoyance, he deflects her strike easily and counterattacks with a large subspaced blade that extends from his right servo and forearm. She blocks his blow with little difficulty and is caught by surprise when she sees his left arm, with a sharp, gleaming blade extending from it, carving the air toward her helm!

Blitzer jerks back with her optics wide as the metal screeches across her faceplates leaving a thin cut from her jaw line to the corner of her mouthplates. That she wasn't expecting!

The mech grins at her obvious astonishment and strikes again, trying to lure her into a battle of strength. Blitzer only deflects his sword and moves further away with her stance more guarded. She's not dumb. Not just anyone could mark her so easily. The cut on her faceplates runs a thin trail of wet energon down her neck cables as a caution to her not to take this Autobot lightly.

A gutted screams sounds to Blitzer's right and her optics automatically scan for the source with a stifling fear that it is Extractor. Stupid! Blitzer spins away from the mech's blade as it whistles by her chassis, nearly digging into her breastplate! She blocks his left blade and grits her denta as he follows her retreat while raining her with attacks. She catches both his swords with the hilt of her battle axe and attempts to throw him away from her... it backfires. The mech braces himself and uses his massive weight against her, his arms bend and for a nano-klik they are optic to optic. His whitish gaze searing into her red one. Then he throws her.

Blitzer angles her frame as she crashes to the hard surface of Cybertron to land on both pedes and one servo. Her servo tightens around her axe as she lands and skids to a stop. Hastily she glances around her. Her small group of mechs a faring as well as to be expected against the Wreckers. Two of her usual ten are down, their stares black and empty, and energon seeping out of their fatal wounds.

A short feeling of panic zaps through her systems when her optics don't locate Extractor, but then is shut down instantly as she rises to meet the tricolored mech's rush. She knocks his heavy strike away and sets him slightly off balance. As he swiftly regains his battle stance her optics travel franticly for her brothers familiar purple and grey armor. The Autobot uses her distraction to swipe at her helm!

Blitzer ducks the blow then, as the mech's momentum drags his arm around, weaves behind him and triumphantly leaps onto his back. She hoists her axe high to bury it into his helm and be done with her irritating adversary, the familiar feeling of victory coursing through her wires. Much to her dismay the mech jumps backwards and throws himself onto the ground. His mammoth weight lands squarely on top of her and all the air leaves her vents. A strangled wheeze tears through her as the mech lifts himself off of her, turns and lifts his sword with a leer.

Something screeches and a familiar grey and purple frame leaps onto the large Autobot's back. Extractor!

**What the frag do you think you're doing?** Blitzer barks at her brother through their twin bond as she stumbles to her pedes. She no longer has her axe. She must have dropped it when that heffalump of a mech tried to crush her. An angered roar from the Autobot grasps the Decepticon femme's attention as he struggles to dislodge her sibling.** Offline him and be done with it! **Blitzer snaps as she staggers at fault of her half-stunned systems... there is only so much weight a femme can handle being smashed with. As the Autobot is preoccupied Blitzer searches for her fallen axe, she finds it quickly with relief coursing through her systems.

**You know, I am saving your aft; stop being so ungrateful,** Extractor hisses at her before he laughs with a malicious undertone,** You can thank me when we- **The Autobot's servo snags Extractor's shoulder armor and tears him away from his back, a savage snarl crackling from the tricolored mech's throatpipes as he throws the Decepticon mech to the ground. Her brother hits the ground hard, Blitzer can hear metal groan as he rolls wildly in a flailing heap of limbs, matter flies eraticly with every turn of his body until he skids to a stop and doesn't move. The Autobot goes after him.

Saving her aft, huh? Blitzer almost snorts as she charges after the Autobot to protect her dazed little brother. She clenches her axe tighter as she sprints to the aid of her befuddled brother, and leaps between him and the angered Autobot with her red optics blazing,** Leave him to me!**

The Autobot doesn't waste any time. He swings at her with a growl him his throat and she blocks him with her axe. The force of the weapons' collision jars up her armstruts and tears her axe from her servos! It skitters across the Cybertronian flat with sparks jumping from it with every bounce. Blitzer growls and transforms both her servos into her short swords as the mech swipes at her again. She catches his blades with hers and a charming _grin_ touches the Autobot's faceplates. He is _toying_ with_ her_!

A rage swells inside of her and she lunges for him, swinging her right blade. He merely knocks her sword away, forcing her into a maddening, disorientating spin. She steadies herself and catches a dizzying image of Extractor still laying in the same position on the ground.

Blitzer shakes her helm to rid her processor of its dizziness and looks up to see the tricolored Autobot delivering what will be the final blow to end her! He brings his right sword down over his cranial unit in a way that will split her straight down the middle! Blitzer instinctively crosses both her blades and stops his sword barely a foot from her helm. His denta bare and he puts more force on his weapon. Her arms begin to tremble under his tremendous strength and the force he exerts on her begins to drive her to her knee plates. She can see past him. He mechs are being cut down with only six of the original ten remaining and losing quickly. She realizes with a sinking feeling in her gears that if they don't get backup soon they are going to lose.

With a grunt she raps out a command, "Lash! Drive until you can get a comm to Soundwave! Tell him we need reinforcements now!" Lash breaks away from the battle immediately, transforming into his alt mode he speeds away with a spiral of particles spraying behind him from his fast takeoff.

"Roadbuster!" The mech she is fighting surprises her be shouting, his vocals deep but very young sounding, "After him!" He is promptly ignored by all his troops. A growl from the Autobot shows his frustration and he hisses something inaudible about 'fragging Wreckers'. What is this? Decent in the ranks? Blitzer almost smiles as she struggles against the large mech. She will use that to her advantage!

A swift movement catches her attention and her optics widen in horror as she sees the mech's free weapon coming at her from the side with the intention of cutting her in half the other way! Slag, this mech fights like a Decepticon; she wasn't expecting that! Blitzer leaps into the air and curves her abdomen away from the Autobot's weapon while she still holds his other blade in a deadly lock above her helm. The sword whispers pasted her chassis a few meager centimeters away and transforms into a plasma cannon as it swings. Panic clogs her throatpipes as the cannon whirs to life, but the mech doesn't use it on her. Instead he fires under his raised arm three quick shots into the distance, her optics follow the blasts and her denta clench angrily as two of the three shots pelt Lash. The Decepticon's alt-mode flips weirdly and somersaults through the air in the distance with blue liquid spraying the atmosphere around him.

Anger fills Blitzer's frame and she purposely falls backwards. Gravity is on her side and forces the mech down with her. As he falls toward her, his sword still advancing her cranial unit, Blitzer tucks her legs to her chassis, plants her pedes firmly on his abdominal plates and kicks him over her with all of her strength, determined not to be squashed again. She grabs the Autobot's arms as he crashes to the ground above her and flips herself over him to straddle his midsection. She stabs at his helm with both of her blades but the mech easily defends himself by crossing both of his swords and catching her weapons in the V that they create.

He pushes her off the side and she lands harshly on her shoulder plating, then rolls to her pedes shakily. A swift glance tells her that she is now down to four mechs. The only way they are holding on is that they took cover and are firing at the Wreckers from a distance. None of the other Wreckers are paying attention to the fight ensuing between her and their apparent leader. They aren't worried.

The realization rankles and she braces herself for the mech's next attack. As he comes at her again she catches a glimpse of purple and grey behind him. Extractor... What had she told him?! He never listens!

**Extractor, don't! I have him! Stay out of it!** Blitzer snarls as they exchange a series of wild blows and blocks.

**Oh, come on, Blitzer. Don't get all heroic on me now. We're late the way it is, I'll end it quickly. Just distract him,**Extractor reassures her with an evil smile. Blitzer growls lowly as she blocks another strike; offline the Autobot from behind, did she agree with that? Swiftly she pushes her mother's weakling thoughts out of her processor and focuses on the tricolored mech in front of her. He will be offlined in a nano-klik_ (1 earth sec.)_. Its almost a shame, he's quite handsome...

The time seems to crawl dramatically into slow motion. Extractor rushes the Autobot. His burning red optics enlarge as he raises his sword for the deactivating thrust, his lip plates part in a silent bellow as his blades stabs for the Autobot's back. The mech's own optics blaze white and he kicks Blitzer down before he retracts both his subspace swords; the whirrs and whines ring in her audios! Three enormous blades extract from his wrist beyond his clenched fists with a seemingly slow, drawn out, metal on metal sound.

Her spark pulses in her audios as a dreading fear grips her. It pounds in her throat, her optics, and makes her feel as if she is sinking in a sea of liquid. She hears herself gasp; she tries to shout, but her vocals are stuck in her throatpipes. An unrelenting fear thunders in her chassis as the sunlight catches the gleaming claws of death.

This mech is Hot Rod!

Hot Rod spins easily on his attacker and buries the blades on his right arm deep into Extractor's chest with a savage roar, driving Extractor harshly to the ground. Hot Rod's thundering bellow echoes across Cybertron.

All the air in Blitzer's vents gust out and a pained rush. Her red optics widen as Extractor's begin to flicker!

No!

Hot Rod snarls viciously at the offlining Decepticon beneath him and he buries the triple blades on his other servo into Extractor's spark chamber. The red in her brother's gaze stutters and falls immediately black as night. His presence fades, she can't feel his stupid, annoying, familiar self in the back of her processor like she always could. Hot Rod unremorsefully pulls both of his weapons free of the deactivated Decepticon and then stands, he glances at Blitzer, who is staring at her brother's frame. His optic ridge raises and he cocks his helm to one side mockingly as if to ask her what she is going to do about what he just did.

She tries to breath but it comes as a choked cry. Someone screams. It is her. Her vocals strain with her anguished screech and she charges Hot Rod, wild with anger and pain. She attacks the mech again and again with screams betraying her infuriation. She continues to attack using both her subspace weapons repeatedly and rapidly but the Autobot deflects each blow easily offering her a lopsided smirk informing her he is morbidly enjoying her disposition. Blitzer feels her core temperature rising fast with an uncontrollable rage.

She attacks again and he blocks. Energon from his 'claws' splatters onto her faceplates. Extractor's energon. Extractor...

Pain sears through her spark and she doubles over with a small wail. This is a very little window but it is all Hot Rod needs. His 'claws' retract and his servo shoots out like lightening to catch her by her neck plating, his lip plates morphed into a hate filled scowl. His one servoed grip tightens and her plating begins to crack painfully. A gasp tears at her throat and her subspace weapons alter back into her regular forearms, her small servos claw at the Autobot's arm franticly in a feeble attempt to lessen his hold. His whitened optics pierce into hers and a sneer carves his handsome faceplates into a daunting chasm of pure rage. Her whole frame shudders as she stares back at him with her mouthplates agape and her vents heaving.

Blitzer has seen the look on Hot Rod's face plates too many times to not know what it means. It is the evil glare that grinds into the features of a killer before they offline someone mercilessly... only it is intensified tenfold.

Only one thought runs through her processor endlessly as she stares into the optics of deactivation. What will become of Tempestfire? Her small, stunted, adopted femmeling, who is well into her youngling stage. Many of the mechs around the base hadbonded and not even fully grown herself, with a youngling that isn't hers. Truth be known, the tiny femmeling is the product of Megatron's attempt to gain an heir. When she was brought into existence and it became clear that she would always be a runt he had thought of the femmeling as worthless. He deemed the little femmeling useless and ordered she be eradicated. Exterminated, was his exact words. Spoken like one would of a pesky skraplet. This was when Blitzer stepped in. To be honest she is still surprised that Megatron agreed to let her keep the femmelet.

What will it matter now? Now that she is to offline on this cycle_ (day)_, who will look after her Tempestfire? Who will keep her out of Megatron's way so that the huge warlord won't suddenly see fit to blow her to bits with one shot of his cannon?

Blitzer intakes a rugged breath as she continues to grapple at Hot Rod's tightly clenched servo. Another wave of pain bombards her spark and she cries out under its intensity. The femme bravely holds back the tears that want to be shed over her brother, the possibility of never seeing Tempestfire again, and waits for her inevitable demise.

* * *

Hot Rod glares at the purple femme he is holding tightly by the neck plates. By Primus, he had never in his life seen a femme more beautiful. Too bad she's a Decepticon, its a waste. He tightens his hold around her neckplates and grins in a small victory as she cries out in pain. Tears form in her hellish red orbs and he sneers at her. Her optics blink rapidly and she fixes him with a defiant and furious glare that all Decepticons seem to wear just moments before their end. He can't help the respect he suddenly feels toward the femme and he gives her a slightly impressed nod with a smirk on his lip components.

A blue and green porthole comes into existence in this moment, several hundred yards away. Hot Rod grins, it wouldn't be one of theirs. So it must be Cons. Good, a fresh group. The others are almost finished anyway. Much to the young Autobot's surprise only one huge bulky mech comes bellowing through the ground bridge with his cannons roaring and the ground trembling under his hulking weight.

Galvatron.

Of course! Hot Rod grins widely in realization. The femme he has in his servo is Blitzer, Galvatron's femme creation. The way that the femme had reacted to the mech he had offed they could have been siblings, or something, so he had to be Extractor, Galvatron's mech creation. And now here comes the fragger himself.

The huge Decepticon's enraged optic land on Hot Rod, they travel to Blitzer, then back to Hot Rod. Hot Rod smirks at the 'great' leader and his so obvious weak points. He gives Galvatron a mocking sneer before he extracts his claws on his free servo and plunges them into the femme's midsection. He feels her whole frame shudder as the metal enters her side, but her vocals stay quiet in a silent defiance in her last moments, refusing to let him hear her pain.

Galvatron roars, his whole frame shaking with rage, then charges at the Autobot. Hot Rod's expression steels as he carelessly throws the fembot to the ground before he walks purposefully toward his adversary.

He calls to the other Wreckers as he walks, "Fall back and follow the Decepticons' previous course."

One of the Wreckers, Leadfoot, stalks up next to him with a snort, "Pft," he mocks, "fall back. Yeah right."

Hot Rod whirls and grabs the short, stout mech by the collar armor and lifts him to optic level, "I said," Hot Rod growls fiercely with his own armor flaring tensely in warning, completely tired of being ignored, "fall back."

The short, red Wrecker scowls but nods his helm in grudging obedience. The larger mech sets the offender back onto the ground harshly with a scowl of his own before turning to continue his previous path that is taking him toward the weakly charging Galvatron.

"You're glitched!" the sea-foam green colored mech, designated Seaspray, exclaims before he turns while transforming and speeds in the direction the Cons where heading before, followed by the rest of the Wreckers.

Wheeljack falls into step with Hot Rod as they face the advancing Decepticon.

"Wheeljack, go," Hot Rod warns.

"Like pit," Wheeljack tells his commanding officer smugly. He pulls his trademark weapons from his back and swings the sabers in preparation. Seeing he isn't going to get anywhere with the inventorbot, Hot Rod nods to him before he extracts his claws and charges at the Decepticon with Wheeljack close behind.

As the Autobots and Hot Rod approaches Galvatron, the huge Decepticon swings his large sword toward the younger mech's midsection. Hot Rod drops to the ground quickly and he limbos under the swing on his knee plates with the weapon passing only a few centimeters above him! He could hear the loud swish of the angry Con's unforgiving blade! He leaps back to his pedes quickly with a swift counterattack, and though he is clumsy with pain from his broken bonds with his creations, the Decepticon dodges!

Wheeljack runs to the left and engages in battle with two of the Con's that had been holed up when the fighting first started. He cuts at the Con's chassis swiftly... there is no competition and within three nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ the Decepticon is laying helmless on the ground. The other sports a morning star, and swings it widely at Wheeljack's faceplates. Stupid. Wheeljack rolls his optics before hitting the chain with his saber. This action causes the chain to wrap around his sword rapidly, trapping it quite effectively. Wheeljack pulls the chain toward him and the Decepticon refuses to let go. Stupid Decepticon. Wheeljack uses the Con's momentum to drive his other saber though his helm.

Meanwhile Hot Rod mocks Galvatron with a smile that makes light of the Decepticon's anger and pained faceplates. The warmonger is clutching at his chest with obvious signs of fatigue.

"How 'bout I put these away? Make it fair," Hot Rod sneers before he retracts his claws and attacks again by socking Galvatron over the jaw with a loud clang that sends him reeling! It is immediately followed by a brutal punch to the gears.

The Con swings wildly at Hot Rod with a scream of rage and pain. The Autobot merely smirks and sidesteps before hitting the Decepticon repetitively in the faceplates, causing energon to flow from Galvatron's lip plates. Hot Rod whirls and kicks the huge mech in the chassis, a move that sends the Decepticon leader summersaulting across the Cybertronian flats.

Galvatron groans as he pushes himself to his pedes but falls clumsily back to his knee plates. Hot Rod walks up to the Decepticon and looks down at his evil faceplates and blazing red optics, he chuckles at his adversary, "Your coming here was personal, wasn't it, Galvie?" Hot Rod grabs the weakened Con and forces helm upward so he would have to look into the face plates of his offliner. His claws unhurriedly extract, slowly putting presser on Galvatron's main energon line, "Personal," he whispers darkly, "Is not good for business."

Galvatron's optics widen visibly as he stares at his adversary in stupor and incomprehension.

A flash of blue explodes on Hot Rod's chassis, propelling him backwards to land harshly on his skidplate. A growls erupts from the young mech's vocals as he regains his pedes and glares for the source. It is coming from a tall, lithe frame, hunched over and trying to staunch energon from its waist, servos wraped around a large blaster... the femme... That blasted femme! Why is she still online!? He will finish her after Galvatron!

Before the enraged Autobot can take another step another ground bridge opens and Decepticons come pouring through, firing plasma blasts at the two lone Autobots. Wheeljack quickly returns the gunfire with his own blasts! Hot Rod growls in frustration before he turns away from the impending enemy. He gives his downed foe a measuring look before he smiles menacingly.

Later," he promises before he turns to Wheeljack, "Retreat." The two of them transform and speed in the direction the other Wreckers went.

* * *

Blitzer nearly shrinks back in fear when the Autobot lunges off the ground after she shot him, his armor quivering with madness. His optics find her's and there is disbelief. Cruelty. Anger. A ground bridge roars to life and Blitzer almost cries with relief when mechs with the Decepticon insignia come pouring out. The two Autobots that stayed behind exchange fire with her brothers-in-arms before retreating to follow their comrades.

Blitzer doubles over and collapses to her side. In her fading vision she can see Extractor's offlined frame. Her father's pedes coming closer to her and his red optics staring down at her with pain and disappointment. Disappointment that she didn't protect Extractor. A cry fights to be voiced and comes out as a strangles cough that causes energon to spew from her mouthplates. Her optics fade as she feels herself being lifted and the last thing she feels before she drifts off into unconsciousness is hate. Hate for the Autobot with the energon of her brother staining his blades.

* * *

_There you are. And if Galvatron seem kind of like a wimp to you it is because his creator bond with Extractor just got smash by Hot Rod... :l Not sure about you right now Hot Rod. You're being mean. And you just made an enemy._

_Anyway on a brighter note, who all watched Captain America: The Winter Soldier? It was so good! It was a bucket of feels is what it was! My opinion: The best movie Marvel has made to date. You may state your opinion if you wish. ;D_


	6. Chapter 5

_Hi again! :D So here's chapter five everyone. Hope you like it._

_If you notice that something doesn't make sense please let me know because my computer has be slyly erasing my sentences as I type and *sigh* I am thinking of giving him his honorary Decepticon designation. _

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

Rage is a funny thing. Once it grips you, it refuses to release. It owns you, tries to control you. It tries to drag you down an easy path that you don't realize is not a path at all, but a pit.

He can feel it in his wires. Tingling through his systems as he and Wheeljack speed mutely in the direction of the other Wreckers. It lies almost dormant in a silent wait. He hates it. It feeds upon his hatred.

:Wheeljack? Hot Rod? : Bulkhead calls to them over the comm links.

: Yeah? : Hot Rod answers with some of his simmering anger leaking into his tone.

Bulkhead hesitates at the snapishness of the younger mech's vocals before he continues, : We found someone. Its pretty likely that he's the reason those Cons were coming out this way. :

: You got 'im detained? : Wheeljack inquires and speeds up fractionaly.

: No, we let him go...: Pyro interjects sarcasicly without any consent.

: Of course we detained him! : Leadfoot snarls above the many other vocals that crowd the comm lines.

: Who the frag do you think we are, Jack? : Whirl snaps irritably.

Wheeljack snorts loudly, : Good-for-nothing, lazy afts. Am I wrong? :

The arguement continues. Loudly. Hot Rod grits his denta and cut the link so he won't have to listen to their petty squabling and idle trashtalking. He's almost had his fill of the Wrecker's for one cycle_ (day)_. The spawns-of-glitches never listen to anything he says. Not that he was expecting anything less.

A scowl creases his features as he spots the rest of the Wreckers and he angles toward them. As he and Wheeljack near, he transforms smoothly into his bipedal mode, easily coming to a stop in front of the other mechs. Hot Rod scowls at the scuffed up form in the midst of the rowdy bunch... the fragger. He's probably a black market dealer. The prisoner is hunched on his kneeplates, his helm turns away from the bots around him as if he doesn't want to be identified.

Hot Rod saunters forward with his optics narrowing, "Who the slag is so important that it took both of Galvatron's crea-" The prisoner's helm lisfts to meet the younger mech's optic and Hot Rod stops dead in his tracks. Quick-plot. The first thing Hot Rod notices is that the traitor's optics are still blue. A burning symbol of what he used to be, of what he betrayed. Rage spills through Hot Rod's systems as he stares at the black and grey mech before him.

So this is who the Decepticons where meeting and wanted to keep it quiet. Hot Rod's optics flash with raw hatred as he glares at the bot kneeling before him. The one who betrayed his faction, that let Megatron hurt Springer so badly that it had taken him countless stellar cycles _(earth years)_ to heal physically and emotionally, and allowed Megatron to kidnap _him,_ submitting him to cycles _(days)_ of torture. Megatron himself is the only Cybertronian he despises more than this sadistic traitor.

Hot Rod's faceplates become unreadable as he walks up to the mech. His optics remain steady on Quick-plot who starts to fidget under the almost whiteness of his scrutinizing gaze.

"We found this with him," Topspin reports to Wheeljack, malic dripping off his voice as he hands the inventor the Forge of Solus Prime. As if Wheeljack is in charge... Hot Rod's systems heat wildly as his anger builds fast at the disrespectful Wreckers. His armor lifts angrily for a fraction of a nano-klik_ (second)_ before a familiar set of vocals drives sense into his helm once more.

: Hot Rod, report, : Optimus orders over the Autobot's public link. At least the superiors remember who they put in charge of this mission. Hot Rod holds back a sneer at the Wreckers as he answers the comm with his own vocals tight.

: Decepticon party: neutralized. Decepticon collaborator: detained. Forge of Solus Prime: recovered, : Hot Rod answers properly and he allows a tense smile to cross his lip components. Even if the Wreckers are being aft-pipes and general slaggers, this is still his first mission, and it went without a hitch for the most part. His smile becomes a more genuine smirk as he relays into the comm link, : mission, highly successful if I do say so myself. :

Sonic-blaster's light chuckle sounds through the comm. : Good job, kid, : he says, the smile on his faceplates easy to hear in his voice, : Ironhide has taught you well. :

Hot Rod rolls his optics in good humor at the older mech.

: Don't you roll your optics at me, tot, : Sonic-blaster says with a chuckle.

: Yes, mother, : Hot Rod says sarcastically. The Wreckers around him try to suppress their snickers at the two mech's bickering.

: Ha, ha, : Sonic-blaster mutters sarcastically to humor his younger counterpart before he orders with his grin still audible, : Bring the prisoner back to base for questioning. You did well. :

: Gotcha. : Hot Rod ends the link swiftly then turns, "All right, let's pack it up." No one moves. The irritability that had gone when he chatted with Sonic-blaster comes rushing back as the Wreckers defiantly do absolutely nothing. "Are your audios ruptured?" Hot Rod growls with his temper mounting even higher than it was before.

"We'll question the prisoner before we go back to base," Wheeljack asserts with his vocals rough and a sinister grin on his mouthplates, "The results are always better this way."

It starts immediately, the questions rain like acid pellets. Scalding. Dripping with hate and brimmed with the promise of certain death if not answered. Painful death.

"Why were you meeting the Decepticons?" Bulkhead asks the traitor in a level tone.

Quick-plot raises his helm to look into his interrogator's optics with fake innocence. "What do you mean? I wasn't meeting any Decepticons!"

He defends himself nobly, with his blue optics raised and his optic ridge furrowed to display confusion. As if he still had a dignity to defend. Hot Rod clenches his servos, anger building at the mech and his false virtue.

"Yeah? And I'm Alpha Trion," Underhand snorts sarcastically as he glares at the mech intensely. Underhand's emotions concerning Quick-plot would be understated if described as hate. Quick-plot knew what was going to happen at Metropolis that lunar cycle_ (night)_ all those vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ ago, yet he did nothing. He helped. He aided the slaying of friends, brothers, and sisters. The recent demise of Paxus certainly doesn't help Quick-plot's popularity.

"How did you come to have the Forge?" Bulkhead tries again with his famous patience wearing thin as he gesturing toward the enormous hammer in Wheeljack's servos.

"I found it in Decepticon possession and took it from them," he answers evenly.

Liar. Hot Rod's engine snarls at the traitor's reply and Quick-plot looks at him with his optics momentarily terrified before his gaze averts from the younger mech with something like... shame? Hot Rod grits his denta at the rage that seeps into him at the very though. Quick-plot should be ashamed. He should be cowering down in fear of what he deserves.

What does he deserve?

Hot Rod feels his temper bucking loose as haunting memories begin to play out in his processor. The utter helplessness he felt when Megatron's claws dug into his armplating and wrenched him along like a whipped drone. The clang of the warlord's monstrous fists making contact with his frame swarms his audios falsely. It swirls through his thoughts along with the pain and agony of the torture he'd endured... And the sorrow of losing Sentinel, his father.

"And what exactly was you going to do with it, hmm?" Underhand asks with his optic ridge raised in sarcasm.

"I was returning it," Quick-plot states boldly, causing Wheeljack to start forward with a growl in his throat pipes and his servos clenched tightly.

"Jackie," Bulkhead warns his friend gently, placing a large four digit servo in his way. The smaller of the two bares his denta angrily and backs off with his optics murderous.

"Why do you care anyway? You're Wreckers," Quick-plot asks suddenly with a condescending snort and a high and mighty gleam in his optics. Fury blinds Hot Rod at his superior and commanding tone and he isn't the only one to be put off by the traitor's words.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Underhand hisses taking a threatening step forward, but is stopped by Seaspray.

"You don't even belong to the Autobot faction! You're a disgrace! But the Decepticons sure as Pit don't want you either! Everybody despises you like scraplets they just can't get rid of. You're too Autobot for Decepticons, and too Decepticon for Autobots!" the traitor spits out scornfully.

Engines roar with indignation and Bulkhead growls out a command to the Wreckers, "Keep your helms on straight, mechs." Why is Bulkhead suddenly giving orders?! Hot Rod's systems temperature skyrockets and his frame trembles as the Wreckers' arguing continues.

"I'd say frag taking him back to base. Let's just finish him here!" Twintwist snarls with his cannons subspacing to emphasis his point. Agreement choruses through the midst of them. So now this is a democracy?!

Pyro leans next to Quick-plots audios and cackles, "It's not like anyone will miss you when you're gone. Besides, majority rules."

Hot Rod snaps. He really isn't sure how it happens but somehow Pyro ends up on the ground with his faceplates stunned. Hot Rod's blades are out and his armor is standing outward aggressively, his systems heave with the stressful heat and his helm pounds forcefully with his rage. His optics find the rest of the Wreckers who are glaring at _him_ as if_ he_ is the turncoat.

"We are taking him back to base," Hot Rod says finally. It comes out as a roar. Some of the Wreckers flinch and Quick-plot cowers. Hot Rod barely notices though the blinding white hatred that scorches through his spark.

As he turns to Quick-plot the mech smiles at him, "I knew you'd come through for me, mechling."

Rage is a funny thing. It doesn't creep up on you, it rushes. When it comes you can't stop it no matter how hard you try. It is coming, but you are powerless... but only for an instant. Because after that helpless feeling of having your mind bent out of shape into a ravenous beast of anger and utter hatred... you feel power.

Hot Rod leaps forward and lands an unforgiving knee to the stooping Quick-plot's faceplates with an enraged howl! The treacherous mech flips rearward and lands with a thud on his back then tries to scramble backwards to escape this raging force. The angered Autobot stalks forward, picking Quick-plot up off the ground by his chest armor, he sets him roughly to his pedes only to give him a punch square in the faceplates that sends him harshly back to the ground.

A cruel joy splashes across his spark as he causes the traitorous mech pain. He allows Quick-plot to regain his pedes before he lands a hard punch to the mech's gears at the same time extracting his claws, jabbing them into Quick-plot's stomach! Does he want to offline Quick-plot? Yes. He does. Hot Rod jerks his blades back out swiftly allowing the mech to fall to his knee plates as his furious snarl mingles with the traitor's pained scream.

"Stop!" Quick-plot yells, pleading desperately for his life as he sees the frightening white of the younger mech's optics. Hot Rod's frame vibrates with rage as he grabs the turncoat's neck cables digging his digits through the tender wiring causing the mech to gurgle in agony. Quick-plot's servos feebly grasp at his arms as he wheezes, "Please!"

Pathetic.

"Hot Rod, release him!" Bulkhead bellows out the order and snaps Hot Rod back to his right state of processor.

The tri-colored mech looks around him to see all the Wreckers have their blasters trained on him. He drops Quick-plot, his spark pulsing, slightly aghast at his actions, but easily keeping it hidden. Quick-plot grasps his throat cables sputtering and coughing roughly at the relief of his free airways. Hot Rod steps away from the mech who is now trying to staunch the flow of energon flowing from his gears with his optics distant.

"Why were you meeting the Decepticons?" Bulkhead tries again to question the injured mech.

"Like I'd tell you slaggers!" Quick-plot spits energon from his mouthplates onto the ground at their pedes. "Go to the Pit!"

The fingers of the terrible anger grasp him tightly and he attacks. This fragger will regret being sparked! Hot Rod grabs the Forge out of Wheeljack's servos as he storms passed and swings it at Quick-plot! The hammer makes contact with the mech's chest and sends him airborne to land cruelly on his backstruts several hundred feet away. Hot Rod throws the hammer down and charges at Quick-plot, he lunges onto his downed opponent like a crazed cyber-cat, delivering blow after crushing blow to the mech's top frame!

Who's fault is it all? Quick-plot. His capture? Quick-plot. His torture? Quick-plot The loss of his father? Quick-plot. Who made Megatron's scheme possible with his own greed for power? Quick-plot. Hot Rod can't stop. He can't think.

Rage is a funny thing. Once you give in, there's no stopping it.

* * *

Elita1 sits as patiently as possible in the communications and bridging hanger, waiting for Hot Rod to comm base and ask for a bridge back. She vents as she looks around the crowed hanger, it was not the best idea to practically announce to the whole base that Hot Rod is returning from his first official mission, and that it was a big success. For now the communications and bridging unit is overrun with mechs, femmes, and younglings all who adored Hot Rod and wanted to congratulate him. She could tell Optimus is on the verge of telling everyone to go back to their work as her mate vents as well.

"Next time ask him to report over your private comm." Elita says jokingly to him with a slight laugh. Her mate looks down at her with a small smile and Elita finds herself praying to Primus that he didn't regret bonding to her. He could have literally had any femme he wanted! Optimus gazes softly into her optics as he lifts a large servo to brush it lovingly down her cheek plate in reassurance of his adoration. Giggles erupt from a group of young femmes nearby, causing Optimus to drop his servo back to his side instantly and his cooling systems to run loudly in his embarrassment. He never will be completely comfortable with even the smallest gestures of affection in public. Elita smiles up at him before she simply walks away to where her sisters are chatting.

"I don't know how!" Arcee is whispering to Chromia.

"You can always ask Springer to mention it," Chromia says mildly.

Elita is about to ask if they are discussing Arcee's crush on a certain tri-colored mech when the public comm flared to life.

: Bridge, now! : Underhand's vocals shout with urgency that sends the bridging officers into a flurry of movement. They lock expertly onto his coordinate and send the immediate means of transportation. The scarlet mech lumbers through instantly lugging the Forge of Solus Prime with him followed by Impactor and Twintwist. Elita feels a wave of pride wash over her toward the mech who used to be under her command at Metropolis.

"Prowl, clear the room!" Underhand shouts to the head tactician. Prowl, Sonic-blaster, and Twintwist quickly send everyone out the door ignoring the fact that a junior officer had just commanded them to do something. "Prime, where is Ratchet?" the scarlet mech asks Optimus.

"In Med Bay," the Prime answers calmly.

"Get him here immediately!"

Elita shares a worried look with Chromia. Something must have gone wrong with the mission and one of the bots are seriously injured. That would explain why Underhand wanted the room cleared. He didn't think the young trainee bots of the base should have to see the horrors of war just yet. The pink commander's spark clenches. Who is injured? She didn't personally know any of the Wreckers but it still hurt her to think that someone is in pain. What if it is Hot Rod? The poor mechling, he has been through so much already.

"No! Prowl, I'm not leaving!" Springer is yelling as Prowl tries to herd him out of the room, "If it's Hot Rod I need to be here for him!"

Prowl looks into the light green mech's face plates before he nods. "We will discuss your lack of respect later." Prowl says stiffly. Springer lowers his helm and nods submissively. "But I will allow you to stay," at this statement the young mech smiles gratefully up at his superior officer.

"Please, allow me to stay as well?" Arcee asks meekly. Prowl glances over at Elita who gives a slight nod as her consent, if it is Hot Rod he will want his two best friends beside him.

Ratchet comes bursting through the hanger's doors just as Roadbuster soars through the ground bridge. The Wrecker flips several times before he stops on his servos and pedes. He wipes the small trickle of energon trailing from his mouth with a pissed off smile before he charges back through the porthole.

What is going on? Elita feels the need to jump up and run to the aid of her fellow Autobots but somehow manages to stay put. Nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ tick by slowly allowing everyone's anxiety to build. Are the Wreckers engaging with Decepticons? If so are they winning? If they lose they can't leave the ground bridge open inviting the Decepticons in for a chat!

Elita is on the verge of calling to the big, green, levelheaded Wrecker, Bulkhead, over the comm to see what is transpiring when Roadbuster, Topspin, Leadfoot, Rotorstorm and Hot Rod comes toppling through the bridge. All five mechs stumble and fall as they struggle with holding Hot Rod captive.

Wait, what?!

Hot Rod snarls viciously at the mechs clinging onto him as he tosses Topspin across the room. The blue Wrecker slams into the wall, luckily missing their bridging and communication tech. Elita watches in horror as Topspin scrambles from the floor and leaps onto Hot Rod's back followed by Impactor and Underhand.

"Ratchet! Sedate him!" Prowl yells to Ratchet, who immediately lunges into the action with a tranquilizer he always carries in his subspace ready for use. The C.M.O. stabs the needle into the demented mech's upper arm and Hot Rod turns with a squall angrily. He shoves the medic away from him breaking the needle off in his arm.

"Hold him!" Ratchet yodels as he fixes his sedative with a new needle and leaps into the fray. The is a wild flash of metal in all colors before Ratchet jumps clear holding an empty syringe. Hot Rod's infuriated bellows slow and he teeters back onto his heel struts before crumpling to the floor landing onto Topspin who moans under the weight.

Optimus and Ultra Magnus go quickly to their brother's side and Springer tries to follow but is stopped by Optimus' sharp command. "Remain where you are!" Optimus looks between the two frightened younglings and takes assessment of Springer's shocked face and Arcee's developing tears. "Remove the femme from the room," he commands to Springer knowing it will be the only way he will get the younger mech to leave as well. They shouldn't have to see their friend in this alarming state.

Springer immediately obeys the Prime's command and he gently leads the dark blue femme, who is on the brink of sobbing, out of the room.

Elita's vents are coming harsh and labored as she stares at what is left of the action before her. What happened? Why was Hot Rod on the verge of going completely insane? Where is Bulkhead, Pyro, Whirl, and Wheeljack?

"What happened?" Sonic-blaster asks not even trying to hide the horror on his faceplates.

"We will have to discuss that later," Leadfoot says gruffly as he and Roadbuster pull Topspin from under Hot Rod, "Ratchet, it's Quick-plot, we can't move him. He badly beaten and if we do he'll leak out every fluid in his sorry frame and be deactivated within a klik _(1.2 earth minutes)_."

Ratchet nods grimly before he charges through the ground bridge. A few nano-kliks _(1 nano-klik= 1 earth sec.)_ later the medic twins, Code Blue and Flat Line, comes sprinting into the hanger and through the porthole as well, both juggling medical supplies. It would have been a funny sight if the circumstances where different.

"Prowl, Sonic-blaster, take Hot Rod to the brig," Optimus orders and the two mechs quickly step in and drag the sedated mech away. "Go to the med bay and get your injuries treated," the Prime commands to the Wreckers. The bots look at the bridge for a minute longer, with a hint of worry for their comrades before they turn and leave the room.

Nothing could have prepared the bots that remained waiting in the hanger for what came through the bridge next. Through the bustle of the three medics' movements Elita catches sight of a badly beaten mech that in no way resembled Quick-plot any longer. His chest plates are twisted and sparking with energon leaking from every crack, his haggard venting suggests collapsed vents. Three holes in his chassis stare at her and taunt her with the truth that she doesn't want to believe. His gears spark and illuminate his fractured faceplates. Hot Rod did this?!

Elita exchanges a shocked look with Chromia, and she also catches the confused appearance on Ultra Magnus' faceplates along with the grim one on Optimus'. There has to be something wrong with him! There is no way that he would do something like this without a reason... is there? Elita recalls the expressions playing on the young mech's face as he battled against his own friends as they crashed through the ground bridge. Anger, hate, and revenge could easily be deciphered, but it is the underlying emotions that causes the pink commander to wonder how they could have allowed Hot Rod to fall in such an abyss of grief and fear. She saw panic, mistrust, and torment.

They had allowed Hot Rod to fool them into thinking he was fine, he always said so... When in the truth he was slowly fading from them. Why hadn't she noticed this before?! She has been here for a little over three deca cycles_ (weeks?)_, she should have! He covered it up so well with his arrogant and jovial attitude. The pink femme wants to curse herself. Hot Rod's pent up emotions has finally turned him into a monster of hatred to fear, swallowing him, and he might be too far gone to bring him back.

* * *

_Leave me your thoughts, likes, and dislikes in a review. I like to know how I'm doing. :)_


	7. Chapter 6

_I am not dead, nor have I been injured in any way, I have just been horribly busy here lately and I couldn't find the time to update. I apologize a million times if there is anyone who was looking forward to my updates and was disappointed. I have failed you. :( This story will be momentarily put on hold as I clean up my hectic life and tie up loose ends here and there. (Don't worry, I will be back!)_

_On a brighter note, here is chapter six. You get fluff, angst, and feel-good all in one. So enjoy. :)_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

* * *

Galvatron sorely repositions himself on the berth so he can keep an optic on his injured femme creation. His optics focus on her. Only her. He doesn't let his vision travel to what is beyond her, but the outline taunts him all the same. Even though he isn't looking, he can see the lifeless form of Extractor.

In just a few short nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik=1 earth second)_ his son's spark had been snuffed, his daughter possibly fatally injured and he slagged to the pit. By the same fragging Autobot! Galvatron hisses under his vents as a wave of pain crawls through his spark at the absence of Extractor's presence, then focuses his attention on his visual recording of the Autobot that caused all of this. It only takes a split astro-second_ (1/2 earth sec.)_ for him to realize what he hadn't before.

That mech! He is the mechling that Megatron had kidnapped! Galvatron sits up as he plays through the memory files of the now full grown mechling. Every move that the Autobot made shows mercilessness. Galvatron's optics narrow as he accesses the memory of the mech's vocals hissing cruelly in his audio. 'Personal is not good for business.' Galvatron recognizes those words, he had uttered them himself a few vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago when looking down at the tortured frame of that tri-colored hellion.

He knew from the start that Megatron's plot had been stupid idea! Why hadn't he just listened to his gears then and just blasted the pitiful looking creature? It would have been better than this... allowing that revenge filled monster to live and take out his wrath on Galvatron's own creations.

Heavy pede-falls draw Galvatron out of his thoughts and his optics go swiftly to the source. It is Megatron. The smaller warlord's Second in Command, Nighthawk, is only a few short steps behind.

A scowl cuts into Galvatron's faceplates as Megatron takes quiet assessment of the damages on his mainframe before he raises an optic ridge, amused. Anger courses through the larger and he wonders just how fast he could rip Megatron's helm from his shoulder's before Nighthawk could reach him. With all of his wounds, courtesy of that Autobot, not fast enough. He settles for scalding his smaller counterpart with a glare before demanding, "What do you want?" Megatron doesn't answer and only smiles slightly. The smirk nearly cracks Galvatron and he has to struggle to keep from reaching out to strangulate that self-satisfied son of a glitch. Instead he snarls with a quick glower shot at Nighthawk, "If you've only come to gawk at my losses, Megatron, then I will rip your spark out and feed it to my cyber-wolves."

Megatron sneers and, instead of answering the injured mech's question, he walks to Blitzer's berth, his optics scanning her swiftly. He almost looks impressed as he says, "You have a strong fembot creation. She will indeed make a fine leader some cycle." Galvatron only watches Megatron with cold optics as he turns to meet his gaze. "To bad mine was a weak, little runt," Megatron says with his vocals inflectionless before continuing, "In the reports it is said that one mech did this?" It is a half question, half statement.

Galvatron only nods in response.

A hum escapes Megatron's lip plates as he glances at Extractor. He wisely remains silent as his optics scan the damage done to the offlined mech. He turns swiftly with his optic ridge narrowed severely, "It appears Optimus is stepping up his game… he no longer has a qualm of snuffing an entire family."

"Optimus Prime did not do this," Galvatron growls dangerously.

Megatron looks half believing as he turns his gaze to the injured leader. A huff of air leaves his vents in a half laugh and a smile threatens the corner of his serrated mouthplates. "Enlighten me," he says with raised optic ridges.

"It was Hot Rod," Galvatron snaps his patience wearing thin.

Megatron doesn't even try to hide his surprise and his unbelieving laugh sounds throughout the medbay, "Hot Rod did this?" Megatron points vaguely around in a gesture to the three of them. Another laugh bites through the space between them, "That is interesting... It appears the weakling did some growing up since the last time we met."

Galvatron scowls at his equal. He had always disagreed with how his creations worked for both Decepticon bases, Kaon and Darkmount, doing all the dangerous or under the radar missions. This particular mission was assigned to them by Megatron himself. Galvatron slides off his berth and stalks toward the smaller warlord. Nighthawk stiffens at his approach and moves closer to Megatron, ready to come to his master's aid if Galvatron's intentions are hostile.

"What was their mission?" Galvatron asks, keeping his vocals level to disarm Nighthawk.

"They were secretly meeting one of my spies who had acquired the Forge of Solus Prime," Megatron answers nonchalantly, "Lazerbeak has yet to return and report to Soundwave of the current whereabouts of said spy and artifact."

"My son offlined retrieving a relic you can't even use," Galvatron's vocals remains detached, but his faceplates betray his furious emotions. His fists shake at his side and Nighthawk purposely steps closer to his with a warning glimmering in his gaze.

Megatron looks upon his counterpart with ridicule shining clearly in his red optics and he asks with dramatized exasperation, "Did I not warn you about the stupidity of bonds? I take advantage of my enemies bonds so many times. It makes them weak. It makes them venerable. Yet... here you are... insisting on having bonds of your own." Megatron looks at him like he is an uneducated drone, "What is keeping your enemies from taking advantage of your bonds? Hmm?" Galvatron doesn't reply so he answers his own question, "Nothing. You lack of respect for what some of the Autobots are prepared to do nearly cost you your own spark this cycle (day). It is pathetic. Detach yourself and become a real Decepticon leader," Megatron says with a saw toothed smile carving into his faceplates. His smile grows, "I would tell you that I'm sorry for your loss, Galvatron, but I'm not, because in the end it will make you stronger!"

Galvatron scowls at Megatron, his servos clenched angrily at his side, knowing his equal is right.

"Now," Megatron states as he moves toward the Med Bay exit, "if you are well enough I have a matter to discuss with you in private."

Galvatron's scowl deepens, but he follows the smaller mech with a slight limp to his step only pausing to glance once and his half lucid femme creation. His optics harden slightly and he haltingly walks through the door with Nighthawk trailing behind him. It hisses shut leaving Blitzer alone with the offlined frame of Extractor.

* * *

Nighthawk follows behind the two leaders who are silent as offlined mechs as they walk. A private comm link request from Deadlock is pending in his internal communications system and he accepts it without slowing his pace or changing his expression. : We're leaving the Med Bay, : he says quickly into the link.

: Is it clear? :

Megatron turns the corner and motions for Galvatron and Nighthawks to follow him into the Communication Hanger. As soon as the door slams shut and seals them into the room Nighthawk sends, : It's clear. :

* * *

Across the base Deadlock looks down at the tiny youngling sitting on the berth in his private quarters. The little femmling never quits asking questions and it is driving him slowly to insanity.

"Why do we have to wait here?" She asks and then, "When can we go see my Carrier? Is it time yet? Why is your optic moving so funny?"

Deadlock hisses in annoyance at Tempestfire before his comm lines buzz to life and Nighthawk's vocals sound in his audios, : We're leaving the Med Bay. :

: Is it clear? : He asks swiftly.

A few long moments pass before Nighthawk replies, :It's clear :

Without wasting any more time, Deadlock quickly empties his right subspace of its weapons to make room for the little femlet ignoring the 101 questions she askes in that period of time. He doesn't like carrying her this way, its dangerous, not to mention a disadvantage if he would happen to need his weapons quickly, but with Megatron roaming the base there is no way he can chance the warlord seeing her and finishing what he had threatened to do when she was a newborn sparkling.

If it weren't for Blitzer the little femmeling would be in the Well with her along with her true Carrier.

Maybe that would have been a mercy.

Deadlock holds his arm with the empty subspace down to the femmling and commands roughly, "Hop in." Tempestfire stares up at him with spirit igniting in her ruby red optics. She folds her little arms and stands a little taller defiantly, refusing to do as he commanded. Deadlock's optic narrow in impatience, "Fine," he says and strides for the door, "I guess I'll just go tell your Carrier you don't want to see her."

"No!" Tempestfire screeches desperately, stopping the white and yellow mech in his tracks. Deadlock smirks in triumph at as he walks back to the berth and places his arm in front of her again. She willingly leaps in and curls up even though she would have plenty of room to stretch out.

"It stinks in here," she complains as he moves to close the subspace.

Deadlock growls at her and grates out, "Not another word out of you until we reach the Med bay or I'll rip out your vocalizer."

She glares up at him, "Why would you do that?" She is ignored so she keeps trying, "Would it hurt?...Are you mad?...Where's my Mom?..."

Deadlock feels his optic beginning to twitch again. "I mean it, femmling," he warns pointing the first finger digit of his free servo at her.

"Why are you carrying me like this?...Why does your paint make you look like a cloud that was lubricated on? Why-" Deadlock snaps his subspace close in her faceplates with a growl, muting her questions to undetectable mumbling. A vent of relief escapes him as he enjoys the semi-silence before heading out the door. The femmling finally quits trying to talk and the mech walks down the hall in the glorious quiet.

Oddly enough, the silence weighs down on his audio receptors louder than the little femmling's nonstop questions ever did and the Decepticon finds himself feeling slightly guilty that he had spoken so roughly to her. Deadlock scoffs mentally at his sentiments, since when does he care that he spoke too roughly to the annoying little scraplet, or to anyone for that matter?

He knows when, he realizes. It began when he had befriended Blitzer when she was just a youngling. Her behavior is what had got him. Where Extractor was cruel and harsh, she was kind and caring. It always made him feel like a glitch if he spoke roughly to her, and after some time he had acquired a cursed protectiveness for Blitzer. When Tempestfire came along and Blitzer took her as her own his protectiveness grew, encompassing the youngling as well as her adopted Carrier. The two femmes are the only bots that Deadlock's ever given a slag about in his life. Nighthawk is an exception, but the large black mech can take care of himself, so he doesn't count.

In a way, Deadlock has found a family unit. A dysfunctional one, but a family nonetheless. They are the type of bots that he would willingly fight beside, or for. A scowl creases his feature as he thinks on the Wreckers and their brutish leader who hurt Blitzer, and on Megatron, who would offline Tempestfire if given half a chance. Frag them all.

Deadlock swiftly checks to makes sure that no one is around before he cracks opens his subspace to peer one optic in at the femmling. She stares back with wide ruby optics and a small snoot on her lip components clearly expecting some sort of snarky comment. Deadlock hesitates slightly before he says softly, "I'm sorry, Tempest."

A smile lights up her faceplates. "I love you, Lock," she whispers as quietly as she can.

Deadlock blinks at the blindsided hit. Love? He is a Decepticon. Love is a vulnerability, love is a blaring sign saying, 'here is my weak spot! Come use it against me!' Who taught Tempestfire such a potentially dangerous emotion? Deadlock knows who. Blitzer. Blitzer would have, because Blitzer knows the risk but would deem it worth it. Deadlock realizes that Tempestfire is watching him expectantly. What does she want him to say? I love you? Well, he doesn't. Does he?

"You're supposed to say it back Lock," she says, confirming his worst fears. Her optic ridges raise and she cocks her helm to the side at his hesitation. He can't disappoint her.

"Love you too, kiddo," the words feel foreign to him, but real. Megatron and Galvatron would say he is weak, pit, he knows that he is, but at least he is no longer empty.

* * *

Elita enters the brig with two energon cubes in servo, stopping in front of Hot Rod's holding cell. She peers through the bars at the young mech inside. He is sitting on his berth with his right leg propped up and his elbow resting on his knee, his other leg dangles off the side of the berth and swings in a lax manner. His electric blue optics are trained on her and slowly a charming smile graces his handsome faceplates.

"Why is my brother's beautiful mate coming to see me?" he asks heartily as he leans forward on his berth.

Elita smiles almost sadly at him and holds up one of her energon cubes in answer to his question.

She can see what he is doing. His everything-is-fine façade is back in place as if nothing ever happened... but it did. What happened out on the field, what Hot Rod did to Quick-plot in his rage, the very thought of the mech laying in Ratchet's Med Bay on the brink of losing his spark silences whatever part of her wants to believe the young mech before her.

Quick-plot has been in stasis for four cycles _(days)_ now under Ratchet's close supervision and the medic is still not sure whether the mech will pull through or not. He was literally on the precipice of deactivation when the Wreckers had requested the ground bridge. If they had waited a moment longer Quick-plot would've been only a husk.

Not that many would have cared.

Hot Rod jumps off his berth lightly, interrupting her inward thoughts, and walks to the edge of his cell. He reaches through the bars and takes the cube the pink commander presents to him.

"Thanks!" he says with a bright smile then looks questioningly to the second cube in her servos. Elita merely gestures to the guard on duty. She moves off to deliver the cube and by the time she returns to Hot Rod's cell the mech is finishing off the remnants of his energon cube. He hands the empty container back to her and she takes it silently as she searches his faceplates for any of the emotions she had seen the few cycles _(days)_ before. Hot Rod cocks his helm playfully at her and then teases, "The first visitor I get in nearly a whole solar cycle_ (1 earth day)_ and she doesn't say a word."

The jest finally knocks Elita out of her silent stupor.

"Are you alright?" she manages to ask finding it highly ironic that Optimus had asked exactly the same question soon after the Metropolian Massacre. She would have never admitted it then but the inquiry had done wonders for her, she was shocked that he would care but she had unmistakably seen the concern clear in his optics. It had been the beginning of the healing process. She hopes it will do the same for the young mech in the cell now.

Hot Rod glances at the brig floor, his faceplates thoughtful and almost serious for a moment. "Now that you mention it," the tri-colored mech says rubbing his chestplates with his facial features stern, "it hurts right here. That slagging femme was a good shot." His mouth plates widen cheekily with a joking smile and then he pouts playfully, "Kiss it better?"

Before the femme can retaliate with a snarky remark her mate and Ultra Magnus enters the brig. They stop each on different sides of her and look at their brother. Both looks slightly concerned.

"Hey Optimus," Hot Rod greets leisurely. He leans heavily on the bars of his cell and grins through them, "So when am I getting out?"

Both of the older brothers exchange a confused glance, obviously expecting to find the same livid bot from before that clearly had problems. All they see is the normal, cocksure Hot Rod.

"In a joor _(6.5 earth hours)_," Optimus answers the young mech's lingering question.

"It's about slagging time!" Hot Rod exclaims loudly. He stops his celebration short as he takes in Ultra Magnus' amused optics and narrows his own in annoyance, "Let me guess, then you want me to write some stupid, boring, long aft report about what happened after you've already read all the Wreckers' reports?" His faceplates darken when no one tries to correct him.

Ultra Magnus laughs uproariously at his brother's disgusted facial. "Dear brother," he says between snickers, "you have to write two reports. The mission report and the brig report." He ends his gloating with a smug smile at his baby brother's expense.

Hot Rod sends a scowl at the three bots standing outside of his cell before he slams his servo into the bar between them and bellows his frustration, "Fraggit!"

"Language," Ultra Magnus reprimands him easily with his smile growing.

"So is that what you came here for?" Hot Rod asks with a growl pointed at Ultra Magnus, "To gloat that I have a joor _(6.5 earth hours)_ left in this cesspit and two slagging large reports to write?"

"Language," Magnus says again and Hot Rod scalds him with a glare.

"No," Optimus answers gently, "we've come to discuss the reasons for your actions concerning Quick-plot."

Hot Rod raises his optic ridge in a silent gesture to go on.

"In the Wreckers' reports it said that Quick-plot surrendered and was willing to be brought in," Elita says her tone clipped and professional, "yet you proceeded to treat the mech as a hostile fully armed, thus nearly ending his spark... Every report read the same so we are inclined to believe it. We are Autobots, Hot Rod. Any prisoner captured is to be treated fairly and mercifully."

Hot Rod's arms fold defensively and his optic narrow.

Elita frowns at his stance and prepares for Hot Rod's typical rudeness as she asks, "Do you have any explanations to justify your actions?"

"If anyone in this room can say that they never lost it toward a Decepticon prisoner, then I can rightly say your question is… 'justified'," Hot Rod answers the femme commander with a smirk. He looks between the three bots outside his cell and waits for a reply. None comes. His left optic ridge raises and his lip components purse at they're lack of word. He turns on his heel and walks back to his berth, with a self-satisfied laugh, he flops back onto it, "That's what I thought."

The three Autobot commanders exchange a glance before they turn and walk out of the brig.

"It was nice seeing you too!" the mech in the cell yells sarcastically to their retreating backs. None of them acknowledge him. "I'll see you soon!" His vocals echoes out through the halls after the bots.

The brig door slams shut and Elita turns immediately to Optimus, a weary vent escaping her, "It's worse than I previously imagined."

"Are you kidding me?" Ultra Magnus asks with a relieved laugh, "He's the same mech he's always been. A little too arrogant for my liking but there's not a thing wrong with him."

Elita stares at the large mech with unbelieving optics. Is Ultra Magnus serious? She turns her gaze on her mate to see his thoughts on the situation. Optimus looks between the mech and femme before him thoughtfully, but it is clear he has no intentions on revealing his processings, so Elita turns back to Ultra Magnus.

"It is a mask, Magnus," she says gently, trying to persuade the large mech to see what she does, "he's hiding behind it."

"He is fine Elita," Ultra Magnus repeats, "Just wait until he gets out. You'll see. He'll be an aft as per the usual." He lays a servo on Elita's shoulder armor and gives her a reassuring smile. "I'll see you two later," he says, biding his companions good-bye and then walking down the hall purposefully.

"Optimus," Elita turns her gaze to her mate, "you have to see something is amiss!" Her vocals are slightly pleading, wishing for her sparkmate to see her point.

"I do see Magnus' point. Hot Rod is acting normal," Optimus says looking into her optics.

"But what if normal has always been a façade?" she questions in exasperation. Her pink servo gestures toward the brig door, "I wouldn't be able to tell you exactly what started it or what triggered it now, but it's clear, Optimus. We're losing him. He's toeing the line and soon he's going to cross it and you won't be able to get him back." She doesn't break their locked gaze and reaches for her bond mate's huge servo with her tone soft, "Optimus, by the actions your father took in his last cycles _(days),_ we both know losing him is not an option."

Optimus looks over his sparkmate's distraught features in slight confusion; something has been off with her lately.

"Elita," the red and blue mech's deep baritone vocals stops her ranting and she looks up at him with tears pooling in her optics, "are you feeling alright?"

Elita's tears disappear almost instantly and anger flashes across her petite faceplates and she hisses at him with a scowl on her lips, "Don't change the subject, Prime!"

"I'm sorry," he says softly, wanting to gather her in his arms and take away whatever is causing her so much distress, "I'm just concerned about you."

"And I'm concerned about Hot Rod!" she yells angrily but her hot tears are returning to her haggard features. Now he is adamant, it isn't just Hot Rod that has her acting so bizarre.

"Lita, go and see Ratchet, please?" Optimus asks his worry doubling.

"No! I will not!"

"Elita1, as your Prime I am ordering you to go see your physician," Optimus commands leaving no room for argument. He hates pulling rank on her, but this time it is for her own good.

"Ugh!" the pink commander bellows her frustration and anger as she stalks away. Her armor plating is puffed up and her fists are clenching weirdly, as if ready to tear into something. She turns back and points an infuriated digit toward her mate, who stands completely still with no emotions on his facial features to betray his feelings. "You are the biggest pain in my aft!" she yells indignantly. With that she turns again and stalks toward Med Bay muttering under her vents.

Optimus shakes his helm and almost lets a smile appear on his lip plates. He really feels sorry for Ratchet right now, having to deal with his just recently volatile, emotional, and impulsive sparkmate.

* * *

Elita vents harshly, fighting off a wave of tears threatening to spill. What is wrong with her? Lately she has been so emotionally unstable, crying over the smallest things, getting angry at nothing! She enters Med Bay with stomping pede falls.

"Ratchet!" she calls roughly for the head medic. The C.M.O. peeks warily from behind a large scanner in the left corner of the front room at the femme's sharp tone.

"Ah yes, Optimus said you would be coming," he says as he approaches her.

"I trust he told you why as well," she mutters sarcastically. He nods and she ignores him, suddenly searching for something, "Ratchet do you have any energon in here? I feel like I'm running on fumes."

"Just Med grade," the medic replies.

The femme's optics widen and she looks like she is nearly purging her tanks. "No thanks," she manages, "just hurry up and do what you have to so I can go get some." Ratchet nods in indication that he heard her request and will do his best. As he carefully scans her armor for anything amiss Elita looks curiously around the med bay and sees a thin steel wall erected in the corner. She already knows who is behind it without asking. "How is he doing?" she asks gesturing toward the wall that conceals Quick-plot with her petite helm.

"Not the best," Ratchet replies as he meets her gaze, his optics showing his worry for his patient. He frowns as he scans her again, then he says, "I have just a few questions that you must answer before I proceed." He picks up his data pad and accesses the femme's medical file before he turns to the pink commander. "How do you recharge lunar cycles _(nights)_?"

"As well as I would in a base full of scraplets!" Elita snaps irritably. The medic nods nonchalantly as he taps a few notes into the femme's file.

"Do you often feel fatigued?" the yellow and green mech asks.

"I just told you I can't recharge! What do you think?!" she growls with her optics flashing.

"Uh-uh," Ratchet mutters to himself as he adds more notes. He glances up at her, "How is your emotional core?"

The femme opens her mouthplates to say something else sassy, but stops herself. Instead she simply says, "Unstable."

"And your fuel intake?"

"Almost doubled," she answers in a phrase to stop herself from being as touchy as a berserk cyber-cat.

"Stand still," the medic orders and scans her more deeply and looks at the readings. The physician's optic ridge raises and a smile finds its way to his faceplates as he stares at his scanner, his spark swells up with happiness and sheer joy. He turns to the cranky femme sitting on the berth with his smile becoming a grin, he grabs both her arms. "Elita," he says to the confused femme, "you're expecting!"

* * *

Prowl walks down the hall, keeping his processor locked to his work. The sound of heavy pedefalls forces him to glance up from his data pad to see Ironhide coming toward him with the little yellow sparkling in his arms. Instantly, Prowl feels his emotional core flare at the sight of the tiny mechling.

She's gone. Firefly is gone.

Slowly the Praxian's pedes fail to keep moving and he comes to a stop, still staring at the sparkling Ironhide is holding. He failed her. He is a failure. He neglected to keep safe the only thing that mattered to him and now the sparkling will grow up without a mother. He failed to keep Firefly and her son safe. He suddenly wishes all those vorns_ (1 vorn= 83 earth yrs.)_ ago when Firefly was choosing between him and his Decepticon brother, Barricade that she would have chosen his brother. Then she would still be online. He could have loved her from a distance. Just as long as she was safe, and-

"Prowl," Ironhide's gruff greeting snaps him back to reality and the Praxian reins his emotions back in check. "I need assistance at the Target Range." Prowl looks at the weapon specialist questioningly. "I'm teaching a rookie group of femme's," Ironhide says and shrugs his shoulders as if it is obvious, "I may need backup."

Prowl nods without words and falls into step with the larger mech. He glances at the cooing baby bot in the black mech's arms and asks without thought, "Is it wise to bring the sparkling?"

Ironhide looks down at the yellow mechling and shrugs. "I'll put him in a corner with a toy," he says, "he'll be fine."

As they enter the Target Range Prowl bites back a groan. He should have known the reason Ironhide wanted assistance. There are five femmelings in this class. All just learning their way around weapons. Great.

Steelstar, a dark blue femme with a short petite frame, who always hangs around Wheeljack's lab because she loved the explosions. Steelstar will, no doubt, make a fine warrior when fully grown for she was a pistol when provoked. Some had to find out the hard way.

Electra, a red and black femme with split doorwings on her back, who stands a head taller than Steelstar. She is the younger sister unit of trainee medic, Jolt. She is a graceful and charming femme with the tendency to wear her spark on her shoulder armor, as Jazz puts it.

A silver femme with light blue highlights stands beside Electra, only slightly smaller, designation Sparkler. Like Electra, she is a sweet natured femme that is sensitive, and caring.

The real reason Ironhide wanted 'backup' though, is painfully obvious now. Standing with the other femmelings is the troublesome, split-spark twins, Firecracker and Torpedo. Both femmes are by far the smallest of the class. Torpedo's frame is an electric blue with brilliant white highlights. Her spunky attitude puts off many and her snarky comments have drilled under the armor of more than one mech on the base. Her sister unit, Firecracker is an orange, hot headed femmeling with even more wild and unruly moments. The more dirt and scratches Firecracker can acquire, the happier she is. It is no secret that they both idolize Ironhide... he has no one to blame but himself for creating those two little monsters.

They are the only split-spark twins on the planet, as far as everyone knows.

Prowl steels himself as the femmlings spot he and their trainer and immediately begin jabbering at them. He hears Torpedo mouth off, saying, "Aww, Ironhide! Why'd you bring party-slagger with you?" That would be a reference to him, no doubt.

Ironhide just snorts to himself and carries the little sparkling to a safe corner. He hands the little mechling an old, unloaded energon blaster before turning back to the femmelings, "I brought Prowl to give you pointers on accuracy."

_Liar_, Prowl inwardly accuses. Ironhide is a better shot than he is. Prowl glances back at the sparkling who is wacking the empty blaster in front of him in complete glee. The blaster was obviously made for a small-built bot, but it is still bigger than the baby mech. It largeness does nothing to deter the mechlet as he giggles happily, struggling to lift his plaything. The sparkling's optics find Prowl's. Tiny servos reach for him and a precious grin splashes across the sparkling's faceplates. Prowl swiftly looks away as a sudden pain scorches across his spark at the sight. The sparkling has _her_ optics.

Prowl's optics find the group of femmelings as Ironhide gives them the rundown of how to hold their guns and he focuses on them harshly to erase the mechling's haunting orbs from his processor. The sparkling giggles from behind him and Prowl feels his core heat with internal agony as his spark fervently misses its perfect match.

Firefly.

Prowl's armor trembles slightly and his optic shutter as he struggles to gain control. The image of her deactivated husk burns into the back of his closed optics and he forces them open to rid himself of it. He can't escape it. Its always there. When he recharges. When he walks through the base sometimes he could swear on his spark her heard her laugh, but when he turns she's never there.

"Prowl?" It is Ironhide.

Prowl's optics snap to the weapons specialist's and he raises his optic ridges in question.

"Care to lecture the femmelings on firearm protocols and safety?" Ironhide asks.

Firecracker groans, "Oh, come on, Hide! Can't we just shoot already?!"

There is a chorus of agreement behind the small, yellowish-orange femme to which Ironhide only smirks and says, "Sorry, rules are rules, Firecracker. If you don't learn safety you can't learn the rest of it."

Prowl steps forward stiffly and takes the blaster that Ironhide was demonstrating with and launches into the regulations and safety precautions without thought to the groans of the femmelings. He recites every word bluntly then starts into the proper loading and unloading of a blaster, which he exhibits with quick precision. Ironhide doesn't make a move to take over again so he continues on to the correct stance of holding one's weapon. Without thought, he tells them how to up the power and then moves on to how to judge the distance by using angles, trajectory, atmospheric density, wind speeds, and other variables. He powers the training blaster up and fires at a solid, obsolete target on the other side of the firing range. It shatters with the power of the blast and Prowl wordlessly hands the weapon back to Ironhide.

"Thank you Prowl," Ironhide says, "Now all they have to do is shoot." The femmelings pump their fists into the air victoriously and Ironhide glances at Prowl, "If you keep that up, they're going to put you in charge of the training."

"Doubtful," Prowl replies as he watches the femmelings shoulder their firearms and wait with excited optics on their hero, Ironhide, to turn back and see their stances. Half of them are wrong. Ironhide doesn't seem to care.

"Alright, are you ready to slag some Cons?" Ironhide asks as he switches the newer, holographic targets online. Torpedo hoots and Firecracker howls in reply. The shape of several known Decepticons materialize on the range and Sparkler squeals with anticipation.

A smile ticks at the corner of Prowl's mouthplates at the femmes. As Ironhide is giving the final instructions Prowl turns to check on the sparkling, who had gone suspiciously quiet in the corner. The yellow thing is gone.

Gone?!

Prowl walks calmly to the empty corner and looks around for the baby bot. The only evidence of the sparkling's presence is the old blaster that still lays there. He couldn't have gone far, Prowl decides as he turns and leaves Ironhide there with the femmelings. He walks purposefully along the length of the target range outside of the containment force field and scans the outside area for the mischievous sparkling. Dimly he hears Ironhide telling his students to ready their weapons, instantaneously the sound of cannons priming reaches his audios.

In this moment Prowl spots him... The little sparkling tittles happily as he frolics unsteadily inside the containment force fields of the firing range... Prowl blinks... What the frag! His spark twists as a tremendous fear grabs at him and Prowl lurches into action.

The large, still, holographic scene blares to life in the arena and Decepticons begin to come charging forward. The yellow mechlet, like a speck in the middle of the Ocean of Rust, stares up at the large holographs with fearful optics and a small whimper escapes his vocalizer.

Prowl races to the closest 'door' in the force field with panic rising in his throatpipes like poison! The shots coming from the youngling's practice cannons would do nothing but sting harshly on a full grown bot, but on a sparkling? He would be shredded! Upon reaching the break in the field Prowl punches in his security code frantically! The lock blinks green cheerily and beep to acknowledge his access.

As the invisible field 'door' drops Prowl hears Ironhide telling the femmes to give the Cons pit!

No! He will not fail Firefly again! He will keep her son safe! As he charges through the containment force field he pings Ironhide wildly on his comm. No answer... Slag! Prowl's optics are trained on the little yellow sparkling as he sprints across the range! A volley of shots rain past him and he dodges them the best he can.

The sparkling is looking wide opticked at the slowly dispersing Decepticons as the shots take them down. Fear shines through his round orbs. He takes off as fast as his little legs will carry him through the holographic Decepticon base of Kaon and then he sees Prowl. With a squeak he lurches toward Prowl. The H.T. skirts around 'Starscream' easily and dodges 'Megatron'. As he nears his target, Prowl dives for the mechling. He lands protectively on top of him, shielding him from the energon blasts with his main frame.

The whimpering mechling clings desperately to Prowl's chest armor squeezes his optics shut against the frightening noises around him. This is exactly what it sounded like when his Carrier left him! This nice, white mech won't leave him too, will he?

"Prowl, what are you doing?" Ironhide bellows from his station and then turn quickly to the femmelets, "Hold your fire!"

The weapons specialist swiftly deactivates the holographic scene and leaps across the firing wall, running to the panting tactical bot. Prowl stands slowly with an unsure sparkling in his arms, doing his best to regain control of his anger.

As Ironhide nears his optic lock onto the sparkling, horror crosses the weapons specialist faceplates as he pieces the puzzle together why the calm and collected Prowl was out on the Target Range dodging shots. The sparkling had somehow gotten in the shooting arena! He could have been offlined!

"We are not suited to care for a sparkling," Prowl says finally his vocals carefully void of emotions, "take him to the youth sector or I will." He hands the sparkling over to the black mech and walks away his doorwings held rigidly in his rage. Rage at his own incompetence and carelessness. The sparkling is the only thing he has left of _her_ and he nearly let him offline in a Target Range! The mechling must go to a youth sector so Prowl can finally have some peace of processor that the baby bot will remain safe and well taken care of by bots who actually know what they are doing. He can't spend the rest of his online cycles afraid to turn the corner of the base for fear the sparkling will be there as a painful reminder that he will never see his mate or hold her in his arms again. He can't...

* * *

The sparkling watches the black and white tactician walking away and with a sad mew, he lays his helm on Ironhide's chest plating. He gently pats the black mech's armor and watches the white doorwinger until he disappears out of the shooting range doors. He left him. Moisture gathers in the mechling's optics and he clings even harder to the big black mech who's servos encompass him.

Ironhide slowly turns around to find all his students staring wide opticked at him in horror that they nearly offlined a sparkling. Electra appears to be near tears as a small servo covers her lip plates and Sparkler has liquid already running down her faceplates.

The mechlet begins sobbing in Ironhide's arms and the weapons specialist grimaces. He should probably go to Ratchet and make sure the poor sparkling is alright. That, and if he remains at the shooting range any longer he will have to comfort a bunch of bawling femmelings.

"Class dismissed," the black mech says gruffly with a wave of his servo. He turns swiftly and follows Prowl's previous path to exit the range.

* * *

_I hope you like it. If you like it, love it or despise it, review and let me know why. Reviews make me happy. They inspire me._

_If you feel like it you can take a swing at guessing what comes next. I try to reply to all reviews. (If you're logged in, of course.) If you are a guest and have no account, you can leave speculation anyway if you wish. :)_


	8. Chapter 7

_What's up everybody. I got all that slag sorted out and I'm back! Woot, woot! And while I am back, Momatron is going to keep me busy helping her, so I can't promise constant updates as I was doing on my first story, No Matter The Cost. I am sorry. But when I do get the chance I will update, so that's a small victory._

_Anyway. This chapter is a happy chapter (mostly) and possibly (if you get subtle jokes) a funny chapter. I hope you like it._

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

Ironhide feels an unruly anger building in his core. How could he be so careless?! If he would have been alone at the training hanger he would have surely reactivated the Target Range's hologram just so he could blow some Cons away to appease his wrath. Ironhide scowls and holds the sparkling closer to his guilty spark and trudges slowly toward the Med Bay.

Prowl is right. The sparkling needs to go to a youth sector where he will be safe and protected and cared for. The scowl on Ironhide's lip components deepens, he never trusted youth sectors. Not since... Ironhide growls and shakes off the though before it can process. He could just keep the mechling. He could protect the mechling better than a youth sector could, right?

No. Ironhide stops himself. The sparkling needs playmates his own age and fembots who are coded to take care of sparklings to care for him, not warriors. He will take the mechlet to Ratchet for clearance and, with Ratchet's permission, take him to the orphanage the coming cycle_ (day)_.

With this decision, Ironhide walks a little faster toward the Med Bay. As he enters he catches a glimpse of Ratchet grabbing Elita in a happy embrace. He walks up to the pair with a raised optic ridge and clears his throat to catch their attention.

"Hide!" Elita exclaims happily. She leaps off the medical berth she was sitting on and launches herself into his arms with an ecstatic giggle. The weapons specialist somehow manages to hang on to the pink femme and juggle the yellow sparkling at the same time.

"Lita?" Ironhide asks in surprise, he glances at Ratchet over the fembot's helm and mouths silently 'what's this about?'

The medic only grins widely. Ironhide's suspicions raise. Now _that _smile was very odd!

"Can you meet me at the rec room in 2 breems_ (1 breem= 8.3 earth min.) _?" the pink commander asks hopefully. The black mech nods slowly causing the femme to beam happily at him. She runs for the door and shouts her thanks out behind her before dashing through the exit and disappearing in a simple flash of pink paint.

Ironhide watches her until she is out the door with his helm cocked in confusion. He glances at Ratchet and gestures after the femme, "Are you going to tell me what the pit that was about?"

"I'm sure she will tell you herself," the C.M.O. says with a sly smile.

"I'd really like to find out what's got the grouchiest slagger on the base grinning like an idibot," Ironhide replies with a slight tick of his lip plates.

Ratchet's smile turns into a glare, "Watch your glossa around the sparkling!" He gripes bad naturedly as he folds his arms, "By Primus, if his first word is a curse I'm going to rip your audios off your helm and weld them to your skidplating so you can hear me kicking your aft!"

Ironhide looks at the medic, highly amused at his choice of words.

Ratchet realizes the irony and scowls even more deeply before he asks roughly, "Now why are you here?" He turns as he asks and begins straightening some of his medical equipment without thought.

"Clearance to take the sparkling to the youth sector," Ironhide says evenly.

Ratchet pauses at his furious tidying and stares into the distance for some time before turning abruptly to perform a rapid scan on the mechling who beeps in surprise at the tingling sensation running through his mainframe. The medic examines the readings silently before he mutters, "A little while longer, Ironhide."

"Didn't you clear him a few cycles_ (days)_ ago?" Ironhide asks with confusion seeping into his vocals.

"If you were just going to question my judgment why did you bring the mechling to me in the first place!?" Ratchet snaps at Ironhide with his servo inching toward a wrench laying placidly on the table of medical equipment. Ironhide holds his free servo up placidly and swiftly takes his leave of absence, the confusion still hanging over his helm.

* * *

Elita hurries as quickly as she possibly can down the halls without running. She has to find Optimus! She has to tell him the news!

She is with sparkling!

Her fists shake with excitement as she hurries toward her sparkmate's working quarters. He is probably there, board out of his processor.

When she reaches the office she knocks lightly on the door. "Optimus?" she calls.

"Yes?" his baritone vocals practically sing to her in her processor through the doorway. She smiles, her spark bubbling with sheer happiness as she uses her pass code to grant her entrance. The sight of her mate sitting at his desk hunched over three data pads of information on Decepticon advancements, new prototype weapons, new recruits and the recently injured list brings a smile to her lip plates. She vents in contentment as she walks up behind him and wraps her arms around his neck from behind pressing her chest to his back and her cheek plate onto his.

"I love you," she whispers sweetly into his audios as she presses a kiss onto his ticklish neck plates. She almost laughs as she hears his vents catch and a small grunt erupt from his vocals. Encouraged she continues to shower kisses on him trailing slowly up his neck ending on his cheek plating. The mech turns his head to capture her lips with his.

"Elita," he finally says, his vocalizer husky, drawing back to look into her optics, "I cannot process with you doing that." She smiles at him innocently before she scoots his data pads to a corner of the desk and sits on it to face him. "Did you go see Ratchet?" he asks as he suddenly remembers his mate's behavior barely a joor_ (6.5 earth hrs.)_ ago when discussing Hot Rod.

Elita rolls her optics at him playfully. "Yes, I did, and I am fine," she answers reassuringly. She clears her throat nervously and looks down at her servos before she ventures to broach the subject that she wanted to talk to him about, "Optimus?"

He raises his optic ridge at her and gives her a rare grin, "Yes, Elita?"

"Um, how do you... How would you feel about having sparklings?" she asks looking up at him with worried optics. A look of panic flashes momentarily across the Prime's features before he gains control and looks at her in slight concern. Elita can feel her spark clench fearfully. What if Optimus doesn't want a sparkling?

"What brought this on?" he asks gently taking her servo in his. Elita shrugs and looks down once more with a little frown tugging at her lip componets. The blue and red mech softly places a servo under her chin and tips her helm up forcing her optics to meet his. He gives her a questioning raise of his optic ridge.

"Can you please answer my question?" Elita asks softly.

"Sparklings are Cybertron's future," Optimus says looking off at nothing in particular. "Is this about us possibly having a sparkling in the future?"

Elita's smile returns shyly, "No…yes…maybe?"

Optimus cradles her helm in his giant servos, "Elita, the answer is yes," he says looking into her optics.

Elita feels her whole frame sag with relief and concealed anticipation. He wants a sparkling! She will tell him now. Her mouthplates open and her vocalizer's inner workings begin to articulate the words when...

"I look forward to being a father," he continues, "but, now is not the time. I believe our first and foremost priority is to end this war, so our sparkling has a safe and happy life. Let's wait."

The pink commander feels like her spark is going to extinguish! _Let's wait?!_ She quickly nods her helm and fights back her tears. Oh Primus! What is she going to do now?! He doesn't want their sparkling right now!

Optimus looks at her worriedly at the emotions he feels coming through their bond. He feels her disappointment, her fear.

Elita offers him a semi-bright smile and presses a bittersweet kiss onto the top of his helm before whispering evenly into his audio, "I'm meeting Ironhide in the rec. room soon, so…I'll see you this lunar cycle _(night)_. He nods in agreement as she slides easily off his desk and heads for the exit.

"Elita," her mate calls after her, she swiftly dries her gathering tears and turns brightly toward him. His faceplates soften and he says gently, "I love you too."

The pink femme forces a wide smile onto her faceplates, so wide that it hurts, until the door closes behind her and cuts off Optimus' view of her. Then her shoulders slump dejectedly and the wetness behind her optics spills out. _Let's wait_... With those words her spark was crushed into what felt like a billion shattered fragments.

There is a questioning tug on the bond that links her to Optimus and she realizes that he feels all of her negative emotions right now. Elita reassures him quickly that everything is fine and that she is just tired before she turns to the doors leading to the rec room. When she enters the rec. room she barely notices how crowded it is as she expertly controls her emotions so Optimus doesn't feel her devastation over their bond. How could he not want their sparkling?

_Come on, Elita, he didn't say that!_ _No, but he did say let's wait, meaning he doesn't want one now._

She pushes her emotions down the best she can as she spots Ironhide at a corner table, but finds it extremely hard to keep them contained as she sees the sparkling sitting on the table in front of him. Her vents hitch slightly as she sits down with a smile.

"Hey," she greets, her vocals breaking slightly. Tears pool in her optics at the concerned look Ironhide gives her.

"Elita?" he asks worriedly his optic ridge furrowed.

"Optimus doesn't want a sparkling right now," she explains brokenly, her tears spilling over. Ironhide shifts uncomfortably in his seat with an oblivious sparkling between his servos.

"Did he say that?" the black mech asks uneasily.

"He said 'I believe our first and foremost priority is to end the war, so our sparkling has a safe and happy life. Let's wait'," she answers using her best Optimus tone. The weapons specialist shifts again in his seat.

"Well, if you ask me, Lita, I think that would be a smart move," Ironhide grumbles almost gently.

"I know, but, Hide. I'm expecting," she whispers tears still streaming. Ironhide's optics widen and a deep vent is pushed out of his systems as he absorbs what Elita has just revealed while the femme lays her pink helm on her arms and her frame shakes with her silent sobs. Ironhide sits rigidly at the table, his back struts stiff, unsure of what to do to make her feel better. There are others who would be better at this. A whole slag-load better. Why did Elita chose him to unload on? He doesn't know anything about comforting crying, distraught femmes.

The yellow sparkling glances up at Ironhide as if he senses that something is wrong and his large optics blink slowly. He peeks at Elita's shaking frame, to Ironhide and then back to Elita. Cautiously he crawls across the table and sits in front of the pink femme. He chirps lightly at her, causing her silent sobs to subside but her faceplates stay in her arms. The mechling lays a tiny servo on top of the femme's helm and chirps again. Elita slowly raises her helm and looks into the sparkling's endearing, worried optics. The baby bot puts two little servos on each of Elita's cheek plates and hugs her face to his little chassis. He pulls back slightly and beeps in question. A grin splits the pink femme's lip plates as she gazes down at the sparkling. She gently takes him into her arms and hugs him, the mechling attempts to hug back but his arms don't even reach the span of the femme's chest plating so he is just splayed awkwardly onto her chassis.

"It appears he is better at this than I am," Ironhide says dryly.

Elita smirks at him, "So it would seem." Ironhide sees in her optics that though the sparkling may have stopped her crying, he not fixed the issue, he only suppressed it.

"Elita," the weapons specialist's tone demands she look at him, and she does. Ironhide gives her a look that suggests that she pay close attention, "I've known Optimus for a long time. Tell him. Trust me, he wants your sparkling."

Elita nods her helm sheepishly and says rather ashamed, "I'm sorry for crying, Hide. I just get really emotional right now." She places the sparkling back on the table and he crawls to the edge of it fearlessly.

The yellow sparkling glares fearsomely at all the bots milling around laxly in the rec room until one catches his optic. He remembers the small silver mech with the funny blue thing over his optics. He squeals wildly at Jazz to catch his attention and it works like a charm. The silver saboteur walks over and the sparkling reaches up to indicate he wanted Jazz to hold him.

"Common, Scrappy!" the silver mech says as he snatches him off the table before Ironhide can stop him. Jazz grins cockily at the black mech and Ironhide warns him with an even glare not to get too reckless with the mechlet. Jazz huffs and shrugs in silent compliance to the unvoiced demand and then turns away with the sparkling happily bouncing in his arms. "Look who I got!" Jazz crows loudly and it isn't long before bots begin to gather around the duo to play with the sparkling.

"He hasn't even been here an orn_ (1 earth week)_ and look at those big pushovers," Elita says nodding toward the gathering crowd of warriors, "every single one of them wouldn't think twice about giving their spark for that mechling." Ironhide nods absently as he stares at the little giggling bot. "It's going to crush this base when he leaves," Elita murmurs as Jazz commences to tickle the baby bot until he squeals with laughter. Ironhide nods again and smirks to himself as Bulkhead plucks the yellow sparkling from Jazz's sharp claws.

Elita glances back to the black mech in front of her. She sees his optics trained on the little mechling with a fierce protectiveness shining through that he couldn't even begin to hide if he wanted to.

"Speaking of pushovers," she teases lightly as she taps his servo with one of her finger digit. Ironhide looks at her with no amusement and Elita's teasing smile fades, "What's wrong, Hide?"

The weapons specialist's frame stiffens as the awful memory files that he actively forces himself to forget pushes itself before his optics... A young mech just out of his youngling-hood. His creators brutally offlined before his optics by a band of street rabble at the cause of the small feud that would soon blow up into the terrible civil war that would swallow the whole planet in darkness. The young mech takes guardianship of his three younger siblings, one mechling and two older femmelings. Foolishly thinking it is the best choice he takes the little ones to a good youth sector and joins the military ranks in service to the Autobots. A few vorns_ (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.)_ later he receives word of his sisters' offlining and his brother's disappearance.

The youth sector failed him.

He failed his family unit.

"Hide?" Elita asks again.

"I can't do it, Lita," Ironhide says his vocals grim and rough, "I can't take him to a youth sector, I trusted a place like that once before and…" the weapons specialist doesn't finish realizing he is going far too deep into his past for comfort so he merely says, "I failed in keeping my charges safe. I made the error of overestimating a youth sector's abilities and I do not make the same mistake twice."

"Then talk to Optimus," Elita says with a reassuring smile, "I'm sure he will see your point."

"It's not Optimus that would have a problem with it, it's Prowl," the black mech says and leans back in his seat, when the pink and white femme doesn't answer he continues, "And I think I see his point." Elita sits quietly waiting for the mech to carry on and he does, but not before a long lingering silence. "He says the base is not safe for a sparkling and warriors are not suited for his care. He's right, I nearly let the mechling offline this cycle in the Target Range!" Ironhide growls, clenching his servo and slamming it into the table with such force that a dent forms on its surface.

"I don't know what to tell you," Elita replies and presses her lip components into a tight line and then leans forward to place her elbow struts onto the table. Her optic ridge creases in concentration before she finally says, "I think the fact that you thought about all those things proves that you wouldn't be a good guardian," Ironhide glances off to the side with a grunt of agreement, and Elita smiles at his reaction before adding "It proves that you would be the best." Ironhide's optics narrow and he watches her get up with a self-satisfied smile. She leaves the weapon specialist deep in his processings and he looks again to the mechling in the midst of the Wreckers with denial.

Elita is wrong.

He wouldn't be good for the sparkling, much less the best.

* * *

"I will bet you five credits he will pick me over Bulk," Pyro says to Wheeljack.

"Knock yourself out, Py," the older Wrecker says with an encouraging servo gestured toward the small mechlet. Pyro quickly finishes off his high-grade cube with enthusiasm and makes a show of positioning himself in front of Bulkhead.

"Don't let me down, Stubby!" Pyro begs the mechling and holds out his servos for the baby bot to come. The yellow mechling looks down at the smaller mech's servos then up to his facial features before looking at the big, green Wrecker who is currently holding him. The sparkling smiles widely at Bulkhead as he throws his arms around the green mech's neck cables in a tight, desperate-to-stay hug and kicks his legs excitedly, Pyro's helm and servos sag in his defeat.

"Pay up, Py," Wheeljack says smugly. A grumbling red-orange mech slaps the credits into the other Wrecker's servos and Wheeljack grins as he stores the newly acquired credit chips into his sub-space.

It's been almost two cycles_ (days)_ since the Wreckers have seen action in the battlefield with their last mission being the one with Hot Rod. That was the kind of action the Wreckers enjoy and they are growing restless fast with all the sitting around. Why couldn't Optimus just give them a job having to do with smashing a few Cons, or better yet, why didn't he just assign them a new superior and send them back out to their post? That would be better than sitting here under Prowl's ever vigilant gaze. So what if the new superior would quit or offline within a few deca cycles? At least the Wreckers would have venting room!

"I don't know about the rest of you mechs, but I'm going insane," Topspin growls from his seat next to Bulkhead. Twintwist, Rotorstorm, Leadfoot, Impactor, Seaspray, and Whirl are all currently brigged at the cause of their brawls that Prowl had absolutely no patience for.

At this moment Hot Rod comes stalking through the door looking grouchier than a Dinobot. He orders a medium grade cube and sits a table over from the Wreckers' with a data-pad in front of him and a scowl on his lip components. Underhand snickers and elbows Roadbuster gesturing toward the tri-colored mech with his scarlet helm.

"Reports?" Roadbuster questions innocently, yet gloatingly. Hot Rod looks up, his scowl deepening.

"Yeah," he growls after taking a swig of his energon, "and I'm sure as pit gonna mention some questionable behaviors of my slagging team." An 'I-win' smirk plays on his lip plates as he sees the two Wreckers narrow their gaze at him.

"Yeah, but nothing can be more questionable than what you did to that traitor," Pyro pipes in with a snort of laughter. Hot Rod cocks a grin at the mech's statement and nods his helm in silent agreement. He studies the remaining ubbrigged Wreckers with amusement.

"Bored?" Hot Rod asks as he leans back in his seat and swivels around to face them.

"Oh Primus, is it that obvious?" Pyro asks sarcastically.

"Tell you what," Hot Rod says lowly for the Wreckers' audios only, "whoever is still unbrigged this lunar cycle_ (night)_ meet me at the south exit. I'll see if I can't remedy that boredom." The looks of suspicion from the Wreckers makes a grin come to Hot Rod faceplates. Hot Rod is about to turn back around when he notices Ironhide watching them from a few tables over. It would be fun to annoy the big, black mech a bit. Hot Rod leans forward and braces his elbow struts on his knee plating and asks loudly to catch his old teacher's attention, "So did anyone give him a designation yet?" He throws in a gesture toward the sparkling in Bulkhead's arms so Ironhide would know whom he is speaking of.

"Is that our job?" Bulkhead asks.

"Well, it's not like his Carrier is going to do it," Hot Rod points out and notices Ironhide already scowling at him from his peripheral vision, "besides a mech needs a designation."

"How about Scrappy?!" Jazz offers enthusiastically. The femmes near the group of mechs in the rec. room all groan simultaneously causing the saboteur's faceplates to turn unsure as he throws in one more suggestion, "Scrapper?"

"Jazz," Arcee exclaims from her position at the long bar with her femme friends, "why would you designate someone so cute after someone who rips things in half?" All optics turn toward the sparkling who sees he is in the middle of attention so he squeals happily and proceeds to shake his low grade energon bottle that Bulkhead had given him to the pit. Jazz nods his helm in defeat.

"He definitely doesn't look like a Scrapper," Jazz says mournfully.

"We shall call you Stubby!" Pyro announces loudly to the mechling.

"He's not going to be short forever," Springer argues as he sits down on a seat next to Hot Rod. Pyro mockingly mouths out Springer's words to Topspin and Roadbuster who snigger at the green and white mech's expense.

"I think I have one," the tactical Second, Piston, says as he walks up to the Wreckers' table, wanting to be a part of this naming process.

"And what makes you think we are going to listen to suggestions from a mech designated after a joint?" Wheeljack asks lazily from his seat.

"You're one to talk, Jackie!" Pyro says guffawing and ensues to pretend to be jacking up an alt mode, pumping vigorously. Laughter scatters through the rec. room at the overcharged bot's display and Wheeljack smiles at his brother-in-arm's enthusiasm.

"You keep talking, mech, and you will be nothing but a skid mark on the floor," Wheeljack threatens insincerely. Pyro throws his servos up in mock fear and begins dancing around the other mech's seat, shadow boxing. The hyper mech quickly gets bored with his opponents lack of movement and then turns to the sparkling in Bulkhead's arms. Pyro buries his helm into the little yellow mechling's stomach plating with a laugh, but the little bot yodels irritably as he kicks his short legs and throws his arms about in a half-tantrum.

"Sparkling," Ironhide warns gruffly from his lonely table promptly bringing the mechling's fit to an end.

The baby bot lays his helm on Bulkhead's chest in shame and Pyro frowns, "I'm sorry, Squeaker."

"Py, leave him be," Topspin gripes, pushing the mech away, "Look, you got him in trouble and now he's sad."

Ironhide scoffs and mutters, "He'll be fine."

"Power Puff," Piston says to fill the silence trying to keep a straight face as he suggests the most atrocious designation that comes to his processor. He looks around at the strange looks he is getting from everyone in the room. "That's my designation input."

"And this is why we are not listening to you, Joint," Wheeljack says with an unbelieving groan.

"Cheapshot," Underhand suggests with a grin and all the Wreckers present nod their helms in agreement as the femmes make faces.

An angry squeal from the yellow mechling causes the rec. room to fall silent and everyone turns, ready to obliterate whatever or whoever was vexing their baby bot. Bulkhead is trying to hold in his fit of laughter at the face the little mechling is giving Pyro for touching his cheek plating. The sparkling's optic ridge is scrunched into an angry V and his lip plating takes the form of a tiny snoot as he glares at the orange-red Wrecker, his vents coming in little huffs.

"Primus, Py, what did you do to him?" Hot Rod asks with a snort of laughter.

"Watch!" Pyro says his optics shining in delight and disbelief that the cute little mechling could arbor so much fury. Pyro sweetly tweaks the baby bot's cheek plates. The mechling's features twist in furious outrage and he throws his little frame back against Bulkhead's arms with a scream.

"Sparkling," the sharp reprimand doesn't come from Ironhide this time; it comes from Prowl, who had just entered the refueling station just in time to see the mechling's spoiled display of anger. "That is enough," the H.T. says his vocals blunt and inflectionless.

The yellow sparkling's helm whips toward the scolding mech's hard faceplates, his tiny optic brow furrowing and his little bottom lip plating begins to quiver. He promptly places his wee servos over his faceplates and a pitiful cry escapes his vocalizer, Prowl isn't amused. Prowl is never amused. After a few nano-kliks_ (1 nano-klik=1 earth sec.)_ of weeping the rotten, little bot looks up at his punisher, clearly expecting to see pity or humor on the mech's features but is met by an impassive look. The mechling repeats his previous action, but this time real tears form in his optics and spill over as he sees Prowl is very serious. He meekly stretches his short, yellow-plated arms in the black and white doorwinger's direction.

"You're fine," Prowl says, denying the sparkling gently as he turns to head for the long bar. He is stopped in his tracks by a screaming squall from the mechlet. Everyone stares at the sparkling, knowing full well that Prowl wouldn't tolerate such behavior. The Head Tactician doesn't disappoint them. He turns back toward Bulkhead and the mechling, approaching with a no nonsense demeanor and picks the sparkling up. He takes him directly to an empty table and sets him on top, leaving him there in time-out.

An unbelieving squeak comes from the sparkling's small vocalizer followed by a scream of outrage. All the bots in the rec. room watch soberly as the doorwinger orders his energon cube and sits alone a few tables away from the furious baby bot completely ignoring his fit.

"Pyro, leave him," Prowl commands without looking up, stopping the Wrecker from going over to comfort the baby bot.

"But-"

"Pyro, listen to the mech and don't touch the sparkling," Ironhide growls and the mech sits back down with a huff causing the sparkling's angered screaming to become more desperate as he sees his savior is held off.

Prowl doesn't show his inward disbelief at the demonstration of total idiocy coming from the fully upgraded mechs and femmes of the base. It is clear in his optics that the mechling has gotten away with far too much around these bots already. Prowl wonders if Ironhide had a servo in the sparkling's spoiling, but a glance at the weapons specialist's faceplates say the mech is just as displeased at the baby bot's fit as Prowl is. At least the sparkling's temporary caregiver is not going to let him act like a hellion from Unicron, but it is hard to discipline a sparkling if everyone around him is determined to turn him into a scraplet from Pit.

Pyro lays his helm in his servos to keep himself from seeing the mechling as he begins to kick the table in his anger. When this tactic of anger doesn't work the sparkling throws himself down on the table and pounds his fisted servos on it as his scream doubles in pitch. Finally he lays defeated on the surface of the table, his anger drained, and he sobs brokenly.

Arcee turns her helm away from the sight and plays with her empty energon cube, while Bulkhead gazes at the sparkling, wishing so badly to go pick him up. Topspin, Roadbuster, Underhand, and Hot Rod are all sharing snickers at the wild show of anger, but immediately sober when the sparkling began sobbing sadly. Springer is wringing his servos tightly with a clenched jaw hinge, Piston absently swirls the energon in his cube, and Wheeljack's optics are closed pretending to be in recharge so no one sees that he, a Wrecker, is nearly going insane with a sudden protective streak, wanting so bad to pummel Prowl for doing this to the mechling, but knowing it is for the sparkling's own good. Prowl and Ironhide sit emotionless at different corners of the room, completely unfazed, Jazz is staring wide opticked across the rec room with a look that says he is unimpressed at this new development in the mechling, and Pyro's helm is still in his arms.

After what seems like an eternity to the waiting bots, Prowl rises from his seat and walks to the sparkling who has now fallen completely silent. The yellow baby looks up at Prowl with the most spark-breaking optics seen on Cybertron and slowly sits up.

"No more fits," the black and white doorwinger orders sternly, which grants him a somber nod of agreement from the mechling. With that the H.T. picks the sparkling up off the table and joins Jazz. As Prowl sits down next to the silver mech the sparkling lays his yellow helm on Prowl's chest armor over his spark and falls into recharge listening to its hum.

The same panicked feeling that had come over Prowl in Praxus begins to rise in his core. Careful to keep his vents even and controlled, the H.T.'s optics dart around for a means of escape from this situation. He could hand the mechlet to Jazz... no. He had just punished the mechling. He must stay here and show a little compassion for him. Gradually the feeling subsides, and this is when Prowl realizes no one has said a word. He fights the urge to rub the back of his neck plating in discomfort. His right doorwing ticks in tension as he sits rigidly next to the silver saboteur.

Jazz notices Prowl's doorwing hitch uncomfortably and swiftly catches everyones' attention to himself by cracking his faceplates open in a blinding smile. The saboteur claps his clawed servos together in sheer delight. "I've got it!" Jazz half whispers, half hisses to the bots around him. Everyone looks at him expectantly but he lets a dramatic pause linger before he says in an extravagant voice, "Tantrum."

"Hey, that's actually not bad," Hot Rod interjects with a nod of his helm. Prowl looks between the two thoroughly confused.

"Thank you," Jazz says dramatically, flopping back in his seat. He grins at Arcee and points one of his claws at her, daring her to say she didn't like it.

"There is a mech in the Decepticon ranks designated Tantrum," the dark blue fembot says with an optic roll.

"Uggghhh!" Jazz groans, draping himself over the table in front of him in exasperation and he wails while clenching his servos, "Why didn't Primus create a data pad on how to please fembots?!"

"Because then mechs would have far too much time on their servos," Hot Rod says sarcastically. Almost all the mechs in the rec room chuckle in agreement, save Prowl, Ironhide, and Pyro whose helm is still in his arms. The femmes present send those who agreed dirty looks.

Prowl sits deep in processing, torn between smiling at the perfect designation Jazz had suggested and telling every bot in the room it was not their job to give the sparkling a designation. It is Firefly's. He almost glitches at the illogical processing. Prowl regains control of his logic core swiftly by reminding himself of the painful, but blaring truth. _Firefly is offline, therefore she cannot give the sparkling a designation._

The could be designated after her, though. Prowl entertains the thought by researching his bonded's name. _Firefly, the name of an organic bug on a planet visited by their ancestors long ago. _A small smirk flits on Prowl's lip plates, he had never thought of that before. He swiftly runs over the collected files he had stored from libraries long ago of the seeker's findings on the organic planet. _Flea, _frown, _a body fluid sucking pest, tick,_ scowl, _another fluid-sucker. Grasshopper, not bad, but would be illogical to designate the sparkling that, considering that a grasshopper is green and he is yellow._ Prowl then begins searching the files for yellow bugs. _Butterfly, sounds like a femme, yellow jacket, sounds like a Decepticon, bumblebee…_Prowl pauses at this one. He likes it. He likes it quite a lot. Prowl peers down at the resting sparkling and tests the designation in his processor. Bumblebee, mech creation of Firefly. It suits.

Prowl brings the bickering among the bots to a screeching halt with one word, "Bumblebee."

"What?" Jazz asks stupidly.

"Bumblebee," Prowl repeats, "it's a name suggestion."

Everyone stares at the tactical bot until Jazz asks with his mouthplates open weirdly, "Why would you designate him after an organic bug?"

"His Carrier was," Prowl reasons without thinking.

"How do you know that?" Bulkhead questions curiously.

Prowl's spark stalls. They can't know. They will put him in charge of the sparkling and he will fail him as he did Firefly. They can't know.

"The femme rescued from Praxus confirmed the Carrier's designation, good friends, I believe." Prowl recovers from his blunder without giving any indication to his internal struggle. No one has to know he was sparkbonded to Firefly, then Ironhide can stay the sparkling's caregiver until he is taken to the youth sector to be safe from the Prowl's constant mistakes. His failures.

"Bumblebee, huh?" Wheeljack asks laxly.

"I like it," they all swivel to look at Ironhide in the corner, who had spoken roughly.

"Me too," Arcee interjects, agreeing with Ironhide, from the long bar.

Jazz's optics widen at this statement from the femme and he begins to sputter in mock shock. "Prowl! How did you do that?! You have cracked the femme code!"

* * *

No one noticed a pink and purple femme that had entered the recreation room several kliks_ (1 klik= 1.2 earth min.)_ earlier and seated herself in a lone corner away from everyone to refuel alone. Twinkle listens to the funny designation suggestions coming from a small silver mech and smiles at the picture of all the huge warrior mechs that surround the baby bot.. Firefly would be happy to know that her sparkling is as safe as he will ever be.

She wishes she could be a bigger part of her best friend's sparkling's life, for he is the last thing Twinkle has of her. But he seems to be happy with his, dare she hope, new guardian Ironhide. Twinkle must admit the mech is very intimidating. Not the type she could just approach without her armor shaking right off of her frame from fear.

Twinkle's processing is interrupted by the vocals of the mech currently holding the precious baby bot. She loves the designation he suggests. It's perfect! Bumblebee.

She continues to listen to the conversation until the silver saboteur makes an interjection that nearly snuffs her spark, "Prowl! How did you do that?! You have cracked the femme code!"

Prowl?! This mech is…is Firefly's mate! She looks him over from helm to pede. Firefly was right, he is handsome. She stops her processing as she takes in the sight before her.

Prowl is leaning back against the back of the bench he is currently sitting on with his tiny son tucked protectively under his servo, as Bumblebee recharges over his Creator's spark, he hums in contentment. Twinkle feels the need to keen with joy but she merely wipes happy tears from her optics. The Creator begins to absently rub circles on his creation's small back structure causing the mechlet to grin in his recharge and rub circles on the larger mech's chest plating. The mech now looks oblivious to his surroundings as he stares down at his little creation and the femme suddenly feels like she is imposing on a private moment between father and son.

But why is Ironhide the mechling's guardian if his Creator is here?

The first part of the bots' conversation finally registers into her processor along with her newly acquired knowledge. The big, green Wrecker, designated Bulkhead, had asked Prowl how he had known what Bumblebee's Carrier's designation was. Prowl had not said they were sparkbonded or that he had even known the femme. A cold feeling creeps up Twinkle's frame as she stares at the pair.

Nobody knows that Bumblebee is Prowl's son. That can be the only explanation. He didn't tell anyone. But did that mean…? Twinkle feels herself stiffen with a sickening sorrow for Firefly and Bumblebee and a stifling rage toward Prowl. Did that mean he wasn't claiming his son?

* * *

_Twinkle's slagged off. Prowl, you need to gather your ducks, because they are scattered here and yon. _

_Leave me you're thoughts on this chapter. Reviews make me feel good about myself. ;)_

_As a side note. I have also just wrote my first one-shot. So if that's your kind of thing feel free to check it out._


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